With the Intent to Be Lost
by TheRedPenofDoom87
Summary: " And the fear, the kind she's been so familiar with in the last few years, creeps up her spine. It sits with her like a shadow while the hours stretch in front of her…" AU-When Rosalee gets clean, she takes up with the Wesen Council to become the scourge of the European J rings until her brother is murdered. Series of one-shots, eventual MonroexRosalee
1. With the Intent to be Lost

So lovlies, here is my newest venture that I dreamed up while working on Sharp Edges and Dark Corners. I was super intrigued by Council Agent (Alexander…can't find a last name) and not just because was attractive… but then I wondered what Rosalee would look like in that role or a similar one. And this is what my brain produced.

If you've read any of my MonroexRosalee fics, you know I work in one-shots and arcs, so this one is going to be structured in several arcs (usually 3 one-shots=one arc) and the first three will be retelling "Island of Dreams" "Cat and Mouse" and an amalgam of the last two episodes of season 2- or at least that's the plan for now. So basically, small canon divergence and it'll keep getting bigger the farther in I go.

Disclaimer: I own nothing at all here, I'm just doing this to keep myself sane through the rest of grad school and because I wanna see Rosalee as a different kind of badass, one kind just isn't enough

* * *

"_**The art of losing isn't hard to master;/ so many things seem filled with the intent/ to be lost that their loss is no disaster..." Elizabeth Bishop "One Art"**_

* * *

Pretending to be someone else always came easily to Rose. She slipped into someone else's life as easily as she slipped on a new jacket; no wrinkles and everyone was the right size. She lost herself for days or weeks at a time in a different life, perfecting hand gestures and smirks to blend in as seamlessly as possible. The devil's in the details after all and they didn't call her a vixen for nothing.

She thanks the waiter who brings their wine with a wave of her French tipped nails. He nods and leaves them the bottle, dashing away to another table in the crowded restaurant on the Rue Bernard Claude. "So, if I agree, what am I going to get out this? Your reach is going to extend all the way to Vienna and into the Balkans out of my establishments."

Objectively, she could find Louis Sherra attractive, shoulder length dark brown hair with just a hint of silver at the temple, broad shoulders and sharp dark eyes that didn't miss a thing. 'Could' being the operative word.

He swirls the red around in the bell shaped glass while he considers. "I can cut you in for twenty five. After all, _I_ have to be sure the product gets to the Austrian border. Customs and all that."

She laughs for real. "I know how Customs work and we both know that you aren't paying customs on your product."

A grin works its way across his mouth. "You see, I keep underestimating you, _Madam_."

She takes a dainty sip of the red. It's very good. She'll have to make a note of the label and order a few bottles once she's home. "I prefer '_Frau*_'." Maybe though, if they get this all squared away she can buy some before boarding the train tomorrow morning.

He leans in on his elbows. "Very well, _Frau_ Fletcher."

"So what can we do about that twenty five percent then?" She wonders, mirroring him. Her dress, a low cut green satin number was the best €100 she's spent in while.

"For you I'll bump it up to thirty five percent." He reaches across the table to run a finger down her hand in what she supposes is a guaranteed seduction move. She swallows her laughter and leans in a little farther.

"Forty," she counters in a low voice, making him listen. "I operate out of Amsterdam, Louis. Right under the Council's nose. At least make it worth my while."

He drains his glass. "Forty. On one condition."

She refills his glass and tops off her own. "Do tell."

"I'll cut you in for forty, if you make Paris a regular travel destination."

She holds up her glass. "I think that can be arranged...To new business partners."

"To _trés belle*_ business partners."

Their glasses clink with a note of finality.

"Now that all the business is over, why don't we head to some place...quieter for dinner? My hotel has excellent room service."

"Of course, Frau Fletcher..."

"Just give me a moment to powder my nose." She grabs her purse and retreats to the back of the restaurant.

Their waiter follows.

Once behind a corner, near the kitchen, he asks her in a low whisper as she pulls out her compact. "Did you get it? Is it done?"

"_Naturallment*_," she replies as she dabs gloss on her lower lip from where it smudged on the wineglass. "We're heading to my hotel room for room service." She waggles her eyebrows.

Alexander rolls his eyes. "Must you be so...vulgar, Rose?" he asks in German.

"It was his idea that visits to Paris should be part of the deal. Why? Are you finally jealous?" Rose replies, also in German.

Ignoring her jibe entirely, Alexander pulls out his phone. "I've gotten word that they've taken out the warehouse in Marseille and are moving in on the one in Nice."

"Then we've got to move fast. Pay them extra," She nods in the direction of the kitchen. "and be ready to cut us off in five. I don't want to be with him any longer than I have to be. It took me six months to get Louis Scheera in person and I'm not going to blow it now."

She leads him down the street and steers him closer to a nearby alley way. Rosalee pretends just fine, pretends to be a cool, collected wealthy Trauminsel owner who isn't bothered by a bit of blood here and there. It's part of the business after all. But Louis' arm around her waist makes her shiver and not in the most delicious way possible. Someone wolf-whistles behind them. And any other time, she would ignore it. "My God," she mutters to Louis. "Can't a girl get five minutes?" she turns. "...It's the waiter..."

He turns and shouts something in rapid French (something along the lines of "bastard" and "born in a gutter") as Alexander approaches. "You are Louis Scheera, aren't you?"

Louis turns, woging into his Luisant-Pêcheur face. "Who's asking?"

"Alexander Steiner. And you will come with me."

"On whose authority?"

"The Council's."

The gun she's been keeping a careful eye on, finally emerges. He holds it up to Rose's neck, while grabbing her wrists together behind her back in one hand.

Stupid.

"Now Monsieur Steiner...I'm sure you wouldn't want any harm to come to my business partner." He prods her with the muzzle before settling it against her shoulder, pointed at Alexander.

Clumsy. She knots her fingers together.

Alexander holds his hands up, palms facing them. He nods at her.

In the same quick motion, she yanks her wrists free and jabs him with her stilettos. He makes a satisfying grunt of pain as she pulls away. Alexander already moving in, he knees Louis in the side.

"Stupid-" Louis shouts as he grabs for the gun and manages to get a single shot off. White-hot pain zips across her left shoulder and the smell of burnt flesh and explosives settles on the Paris street but she holds her ground, determined not to give him an ounce of satisfaction. The sounds of sirens start to rise, lights turn on in the surrounding buildings.

"Rose !" Alexander glances up but can't go to her, instead he presses his knee a little farther into Louis' back.

"I'm fine. It's just a graze." She stalks over to Louis, who is still squirming. "Too bad," she says to Louis. "Before it was just going to be fraudulent papers and customs evasions." She drops to her knees. "Now, it's attempted murder." The sirens grow louder and the flashing lights appear. She lets out a piteous wail as the Paris police swarm the streets.

* * *

*German for "Ms."

* very beautiful

*Naturally

* * *

Rosalee sits patiently, secretly glad to be off her feet, keeps a stream of grateful tears as the nurses coo in French in the ER. They dab at her arm before stitching and wrapping it carefully. They hand her a sling and tell her to keep from moving it too much in the next week.

When she's deemed ready, Alexander meets her at the front. Normally, he's all smiles and champagne after a successful apprehension but his demeanor is somber, but she chalks it up to the bullet graze and her being in the hospital. In her first year in the Hague, they had an unfortunate run in with a pack of Verrat Hundijagers that put Alexander in the hospital for a week. She escaped with a mild concussion and a shiner but she barely left his bedside. And she'd been no ray of sunshine either.

As he always does, he offers his arm and leads her to the waiting car.

"Did we get a different train?" She wonders as she settles in, careful of the sling the hospital gave her. Reaching down, she slips off her heels and rolls her ankles.

"Yes, De Groot wants us back in Den Haag as soon as possible. We're going to catch the first train out of Mannheim."

"Lovely," she settles back against the seat to nap for the next three hours. Her whole neck is stiff and an ache radiates from her left arm is starting to set in across her shoulders. "They gave me some pain meds. Hand a few to me?"

He hands her the bottle already opened.

She tosses back a few and glances over at him. Alexander taps the edge of his phone against his thigh. Lights from the street throw his long face into sharp relief and he looks in that moment so much like the panther he is. "What is it? What's wrong? You're never this down afterwards."

"You should sleep." Is all he says.

"Tell me."

Alexander sighs. "De Groot received a message while we were gone. From Portland."

Her heart stills. Not Freddy, she prays. And hates her self for choosing Freddy. But he was the one who was there for her when she needed him.

"It seems your brother was murdered this morning."

At first, the words circle her, not touching her. Alexander does not say anything more He sits with his long elbows atop his knees, head in his hands. The words, the ones she knows are true, are too big, to full to take in as they are. She waits until they break down into sizable syllables that go ringing around in her brain until they reform into their true sounds. Freddie... murdered. Gone.

"I'm sorry, _Schatz*_." Alexander says finally.

She buries her face in her hand at the sound of the affection in his voice and his hand on her back.

"I'm so so sorry."

All at once, she'd give everything to be anyone else.

* * *

*German for sweetheart, or honey, a term of endearment

* * *

It's not her first ride with the police, but she had hoped she wouldn't have made this a habit. "Promise me," Freddy insisted the last time. "No more."

His words keep ringing in her hears this morning as she walked into the police department. There were offers to help her with her bag, but she waved them away with her free hand but when she asked for Detective Burkhardt, she only received pointed fingers and looks of pity.

He seemed nice enough; standing to greet and offering her coffee after what he assumed was a long flight and in reality was nearly twenty four hours of travel, along with an apology. He seemed nice enough with bright green eyes and a jawline that could cut glass. On his desk, sat a picture of a very pretty woman with red hair and a smile that lit up the frame. No ring, though, on either of them.

In Rose's absence, wide swaths of Portland had the gall to change. Streets her mother used to warn her off (or at least try to) have become up and coming neighborhoods with hip coffee shops and specialty stores for things she didn't know needed their own stores like olive oil and refurbished thrift store clothes, boutiques with birds on everything. She's tempted to send Alexander a newsboy cap with a snappy red cardinal on it. He'd hate it.

"Amsterdam's an awfully long way from Portland." The Detective notes. "What do you do there?"

"Den Haag, actually." She replies using the Dutch pronunciation. "I'm an consultant. For Interpol." On paper, she was at least. And she did give her 'report' on Louis Scheera to one of their main contacts in Interpol, a Malin Fatal, to process and convict.

"What's your specialty?" He probes the careful silence that has settled on them since she got in his car.

"Fraud, identity theft, trafficking." She lists off. It's all true in one manner or another.

His eyebrows quirk upward. "I wouldn't have pegged you for that."

"I don't fit the type then?" she wonders.

"Hey, I read people for a living." He glances over at her.

"So do I," she replies.

"And I'm not wrong very often."

She matches him. "Neither am I."

A smirk works up his cheek, revealing a dimple. "So, your injury was work related?"

"Why don't you tell me, Detective." She replies, turning back to the window to watch the newly-familiar street signs whiz by: Burnside, Everett, Irving, Kearney. "I can give you my boarding passes and a copy of my credit card statements to prove I was in Paris on the day of my brother's murder. And to prove I didn't take a hit out on him."

"I didn't-"

"No, you didn't, but you're a detective and family members are always the first suspects."

He lets out a snort of laughter at being caught out in his own game. "They are."

"And I'm sure you did your research." _I would_, she thinks.

"You had a couple of B&Es a few years ago. Some jail time. And then radio silence."

She nods. "Freddy's the one who helped me achieve that radio silence. I owe him everything."

"So, tell me why he listed you as a emergency contact when you live all the way in...Den Haag?" He attempts to mimic her accent but fails horribly. "And your mother and sister live in the same state?" He wonders.

She bites the corner of her lip, choosing her words. "In another life, I did what Freddy did. Alternative cures, teas, soaps...but I...needed to get away for a while. I suppose he wanted someone who knew the business. My mom is...frail and my sister doesn't have the head for it."

"What's she do? Your sister?"

Rosalee shook her head. "I...I don't know." She couldn't remember what Deetta had been up to last. And the last time she'd asked...

He doesn't say anything more on the subject but he sets his shoulders as they pull into a spot in front of the shop.

Rose grips the strap of her bag. The signs are all the same in the window, the same blue and gold, except of course for the police tape winding its way across the sidewalk. She hasn't set foot in the shop in nearly three years and yet, it feels as though someone has reached in and grabbed a hold of her heart.

Everything's the same, except for the soft coppery smell of blood lingering in the air. Sniffing, she looks down to see one of the rugs soaked in it. She drops down to her knees; the breath knocked clean out of her. Without meaning to, she woges and tries her hardest not to cry in front of...

The back of her neck burns as she feels his eyes on her, as though he's seeing all the way in, through all the lies and layers, all the people she pretends to be. She turns and it's the recognition that gives him away.

"I-" He starts, eyes wide and hand extended like he would a wild animal.

She retracts and scrambles clumsily to her feet. The word on her tongue. _Grimm_. And she's without her partner or the use of her right arm.

"I'm not going to hurt you..." his words are well practiced, smooth. "I swear."

"Did _you_ kill him?!" She manages to spit out. "Did you?!" She checks the front desk for anything, she could use to fight her way out. Not even a letter opener in the mess. Shit.

"I didn't hurt your brother, I swear."

"You know I can't trust a damn thing you say." She snarls over her shoulder.

He takes another few steps back. "Did you know your brother was dealing?"

Her heart plummets. "No..." she breathes. He wouldn't, not after everything. "Dealing in what?"

"Human body parts...Like Gallenblase. That's-"

"I know what it is. But no, I didn't know."

"He was working with Giers-"

"Did they kill my brother?"

"I don't know..." He reaches for his jacket and she shrinks against the desk. He holds out a card. "If you think of anything or see anything, call me."

She takes it and flips it over a few times. She looks up at him, trying to find that killer edge that her childhood nightmares were made of, born from stories her father used to tell about bad Wesen (read Fuschbau) children who didn't listen to their elders who were dragged into the darkness by the big bad Grimm. But it eludes her entirely. There's no trace of it anywhere in his huge green eyes. Or if it is there, she's losing her touch

When he's gone, she waits until she can't hear the rumble of his monstrous jeep she thought they would have long since outlawed. She pulls out her phone and dials De Groot and waits for his gruff "_Guten Abend_, Frau Calvert. "

"He's a Grimm." She whispers. "The Detective who's handling Freddy's death."

"Does he know? Did he see?" _Did you let slip who you work for_, is what he's asking. _Have we been compromised?_

"...Yes...I couldn't help it. But I didn't say anything about the Council."

De Groot is quiet for a moment before he asks the inevitable question: "Did he kill your brother?"

"He...he says he didn't."

"And do you believe him?"

"I—I think I do."

"Keep a sharp eye." He warns. "We have to be sure he wasn't killed because of his connection. I am trusting you, Frau Calvert to get to the bottom of this."

"I understand."

He lets out a low sigh. "I should hate to think that this is the beginning of trend. In the mean time, I am re-assigning you to Portland to serve as contact person, as your brother was, and your father."

"I understand."

"I expect to be kept informed of the situation."

"Of course."

"Will you require Alexander's help?"

"No." She mutters. "No, I'm doing this on my own."

* * *

In twenty four hours, she barely slept. Last night, Rose spent hours staring at the darkened ceiling, caught between jet-lag and sorrow; the couch was far less comfortable than she imagined but she couldn't find it in herself to sleep in the bed. Back at the shop, she's only managed to roll up the ruined rug, ready to be thrown out and barely started on the inventory when there's a knock at the door.

Sighing, she hops from the stool behind the front desk and goes to the door.

The Grimm is there with someone who is not his partner. Or at least not the one from the station. While every instinct tells her not to, she cracks the door open. "What's this? Another partner?"

"No." The Grimm glances up at the man at his side and then back to her. "He's...my consultant...I guess?"

The other man shrugs. "I suppose that's a word we could use."

She lets them both in while the Grimm makes the introductions. "Monroe, this is Rosalee Calvert. Rosalee Calvert, this is Monroe."

Monroe offers a hand to her. "I was really sorry to hear about your brother." He towers over the Grimm by a good five inches even as he hunches his broad shoulders just a touch, not out of self-consciousness but more of an awareness of how his general height and size might intimidate someone.

"Did you know him?" She shakes as best she can with her left hand. His fingers are callused and so much bigger than hers. But his hands are careful and restrained, self-taught traits she's sure. If he's one of those rare gentle giants, that remains to be seen.

"No, but our paths crossed a few times." His voice, measured and calm, radiates that same feeling through the room, despite the Grimm's presence. And there's only one possible explanation for it.

For just a moment, his eyes catch the light and she sees the distinctive red shadow on the edge of his iris. He tries pull his hand back but she grasps it tight. She has to be sure. She woges and steps back. He lets go too. It's been a while since she's seen a Blutbad in the flesh like this.

When they both retract, she turns to the Grimm. "I...I don't understand...How-how does this work?" A Grimm with a Blutbad on a leash? She's not going to walk out of this city alive.

"It's... complicated." Monroe assures her.

"Yeah..." she agrees slowly. "I can see that."

"Do you think it would be all right if we take a look in the basement?" The Grimm asks her.

She crosses her free arm over her chest. "I thought the police already did."

"We did. But I'd like to take another look around," he gestures to Monroe. "With my consultant."

"I haven't finished a complete inventory yet, so I'm not sure exactly what's down there."  
"Is there anything in here someone might kill for?"

"Not a Kereshite... A Wesen...probably. Like I said, I'm not entirely sure what's in here yet. It could be any number of things."

"Can we help, then? Maybe speed up the process?" The Grimm asks.

She glances between them. "I don't suppose I have any choice, do I?" She sticks her phone in her pocket and grabs her inventory list and leads them down to the basement. They start on opposite ends, she lets them do all the heavy lifting while she sorts the tinier bottles.

"Wait..." Monroe starts. "This box is opened." She hears him fiddling with jars and then the quick snap of a jar opening.

Rose looks up from her inventory, the lingering smell wafting over to her. She grits her teeth against the memories it brings up.

"It looks like jacine...its a sort of mold that grows on some...tree...or something. But it's pretty poisonous to you know, you. But it's like an opiate for us-granted that it's used correctly."

"And incorrectly?" The Grimm asks.

Monroe shakes his head. "Nothing good."

Rose stands behind them. "It can be very addictive." She murmurs. "Think of Oxytocin mixed with heroin. Not good for your liver or brain." She takes the jar from Monroe and unscrews the cap for herself and sniffs. "It's a quality batch."

They exchange a glance between them and then to her.

"How quality?" The Grimm asked. "Good enough to kill for?"

"It's possible," she peers into he box and counts the jars, ignoring the knowing look in Monroe's eyes. "There are a few missing but without finishing the inventory, it's impossible to be sure."

The Grimm claps his hands to together. "Could you finish your inventory and make a list of _all_ the things you have that a Wesen would kill for?"

She nods. "I could finish it in the next day or two." They bid her goodnight and make her promise to call if she needs any help. But she waves them off.

It's almost eleven whens she hears the door to the shop open and then close. She frowns, thinking she's kept it locked. Just as she's about to call out, the smell hits her. Skalengecks. Grabbing her box cutter, she ducks behind one of the taller shelves, waiting as the voices grow louder and louder. "...forgot to turn out the lights. Now, let's get the stuff and get out of here."

They attack the boxes (but from here she can't see which ones), stuffing it in their pockets and bags. Rose throws her head back and breathes as silently as she can, compelling her pounding heart to slow even though she knows they can't hear.

In the near silence, her phone sings out. Cursing internally, she scrambles to pull it out of her pocket one handed and silence it. Meanwhile the men bicker over whose phone it is. Just as she turns it off, a real silence descends. And then.

One of them, wearing his Skalengeck face appears on her other side. Rose slashes at him with the box cutter, catches the edge of his shirt and a little flesh and she backs away, only to fall into the other's arms. This one grabs her free wrist while the other advances. She kicks back with a roar, catching the one holding her wrist between his legs. He goes down groaning. She ducks past the advancing Skalengeck, who's back to human, and rushes to the stairs.

With a boom, one of them smashes through the drywall and grabs her ankle. "Fucker!" She screams and stabs his hand with the box cutter so deep it stays in. He lets loose a howl. She takes the stairs two at a time until she hits the street. Rose slams the door shut behind her and slides the wooden bar over it. She hears them hit the door but it doesn't stop her from running in the opposite direction, wishing that maybe she had kept either the Grimm or the Blutbad on retainer, though she's not sure which is the lesser of two evils.

* * *

Her adrenaline has only started to slow when there's a knock at the door. She's only been back at her brother's for ten minutes and she marvels at the speed. When the Grimm had her picked up at the restaurant she'd run to, he brought her to the station to try to pin down the identities. Clint Vickers and Joshua Hall. The Grimm pulled their mug shots up on his monitor. She kept repeating their names to herself; she's going to move heaven and earth to find them and make them pay.

She opens the door to find Monroe. "Hey," he greets her.

"Hey," she replies and ushers him in. "I still don't see why this is necessary."

"Nick would rather his witness is alive, you know. And you said you didn't want anymore police."

"A Grimm Detective is quite enough for me, thank you. Besides you'd be able to smell them a mile away."

"So you trust me then?"

"Only slightly more than him." Rose digs through her brother's cabinets and makes a triumphant sound when she finds a bottle of Jäegermister. "I don't know about you, but I'm in need of a little depressant. Want one?"

"If you're offering..." She finds two clean glasses and pours plenty in each. "So why only slightly more than him?"

"You haven't tired to kill me. And I figured if you haven't at least tried by now you probably won't." She takes a deep sip and winces at the burn. It's been a while.

"Maybe I'm just waiting for the right moment."

"Nope. You Blutbad are all the same, you're high-spirited and you let your emotions get the better of you."

"If it makes a difference, I'm not like that anymore, " He insists, taking a sip.

"No, " She smiles over the rim of her glass. "I don't suppose you are. Because, apparently, Portland isn't weird enough."

"So, are you really a consultant for Interpol?"

She tosses back a little more. "I don't know; are you really working with a Grimm?" She counters.

"Touché." He holds out his glass and she taps it.

"Just to be clear, you're here because he asked you to and because I didn't want a police detail? He arranged that?"

"That's about the size of it."

"I don't get it; what's in it for him?"

"Stringent set of morals? Police academy training gone horribly wrong?" Monroe shrugs. "Damned if I know."

She swirls the little bit left in her glass. "So...are you going to ask me?"

Panic flits across his face. "Ask you what?"

"About earlier. About the 'J'."

"You do seem to know quite a bit." He takes another sip. "Sounds like from first hand...experience. No judgment though..."

"Yeah," Rose doesn't look up from her glass. "I hit a rough patch. For about seven years. Freddy helped me, when I need it, found me a job in The Hague." She shrugs as if it's just another day and not her entire life crashing down on top of her. She finishes the last bit and stands. "I'm exhausted. Still a little jetlagged. But you're welcome to the couch and anything in the fridge. There are extra blankets in the hall closet if you need them."

He leans back against the couch. "_Guten Nacht_,"* he waves.

"_Sprechen Si Deutsch_?"* She asks on a whim.

"_Ja."_

She pauses in the hallway and asks in German. "_Haben Sie ihm Vertauen_?"*

"_Ja_."

"Why?"

Monroe presses his fingers together before answering, albeit in English: "He's not like all the stories we grew up with. He's...just trying to do the right thing here."

Rose nods and retreats to the bedroom. She leans against the closed door and digs out her phone again. She dials Alexander's number.

"_Ja_?" He answers sleepily. It must be early; she didn't even bother to try to figure out what time it is there.

Rose almost cries at the sound of his voice. "_C'est moi._"*

"Rose?! What is it? Where are you? De Groot told me-"

"I'm fine," she replies in French, praying that Monroe doesn't understand, let alone hear. "I'm okay. I need you to do something for me."

"Anything_ Schatz_, anything."

"Clint Vickers and Joshua Hall. They killed my brother. Skalengecks." She spits the last word. "I need to know if they have any ties to anyone in the Verrat or any other organizations. Family, friends. Anything."

"Rose-"

"Please...please just do this for me."

He breathes heavily against the phone. "Alright, _Schatz_. I will."

"_Danke*, _Alexander."

* * *

*Good night

* Do you speak German?

* Do you trust him?

*It's me

*thank you

* * *

"You've done plenty," The Grimm insists. "Wait here." He glares at her through the rearview mirror, as if trying to pin her there.

She hands over the ticket to Monroe, who at least has the decency to shoot her a look of sympathy before he gets out of the car. And its all she can do not to flop back against the seat like a petulant seventeen year old denied the car keys. It's not like she got them the tickets or saved his sergeant's life or anything.

Her phone tweets in her pocket. "_Ja_?" She doesn't even bother to check who it is.

"Rose? I couldn't find anything on your Clint Vickers or Joshua Hall. As far as I can see...they've got no ties to anyone big."

Fury, cold and all consuming, erupts in her throat. "_Danke_," and hangs up the phone. Fuming, she waits until she can't see them anymore and slips her arm out of it's sling. She tiptoes around the building, looking for a way in. _Stay in the car, my ass_, she thinks as she digs out her lock pick set that she's not sure how she got past security at the airport and goes to work on the back door. She even had to teach Alexander how to make locks sing; he thought it was too far beneath him, too much a common criminal trait.

Before she can get a good handle on it, shots ring out from inside, screams rise and then there the sound of running feet. She grabs a brick from the pile in the corner and runs toward the sounds. She finds Monroe, easily, as she's head and shoulders over the rest of the crowd. But he doesn't wave to her.

The man between them holds both arms stretches out in front of him. Rose catches sight of a white bandage on his hand, stained with blood. Without a word, she kicks him hard in the ribs and he drops. He turns to shout but she's there and gives him one more good kick to the face. He goes still. Alexander would be so proud.

Rose stands over him, brick in her hand. One quick smack with it and they'd be one less murder to contend with. "You didn't care about him...he was just in the way." She says to the unconscious body. "So you killed him. A means to an end."

"Rosalee..." Monroe starts walking toward her slowly.

She glares at him. "Why shouldn't I?! This is my only shot at justice. The Grimm certainly isn't going to get me any."

He reaches out for her hand. "But that's not what this is."

"I don't need a morality lesson from a Blutbad!" She spits.

"Really? Because it looks like you do. Look, you're better than this."

"How do you know?"

"Because I can see it."

When she doesn't say anything more, he slides the brick out of her hand without taking his eyes from hers. _I'm not like that anymore_ he said last night, the same mantra she's kept up for the last few years. _I'm not like that anymore. I'm a different person now._ She looks down at the unconscious body._ I'm not like you._

But she almost wasn't; she clasps her now empty hands together, screwing her face up against the tears howling to be free. He reaches out again, but this time for her shoulder. But she jerks away. Turning, she walks slowly back to the car.

She digs her phone out of her pocket but her thumb hovers over the contacts; the one person she wants to talk to is isn't going to answer. Trembling, she presses his number anyway and waits through all the rings until his voice fills her ear:

"You've reached Freddy Calvert. I'm not available right now. Leave your name and a detailed message and I'll get back to you."

She clicks it off and slides back into the back seat of the car, suddenly exhausted.

* * *

Rose thought each previous day had been the hardest since her father's death. She woke and for a brief moment, believed the worst was finally was behind her. But it wasn't. After all the business at the Trauminsel and the arrest, she got an email from her mother; she'd be unable to make the trip up to Portland. She said nothing about Dietta.

This morning had been no different except that she doesn't want to have to put on the black dress she laid out last night, or step into the shoes she picked out or wear the damned hose. Rose rolled onto her back, cursing the sun shining on today of all days and that it's probably beautiful out. She traced the light filtering through her window to the flower arrangement on the desk. Over the last week, the shop was littered with them; white lilies mostly. But this one was bright; blood orange tulips, baby's breath and a note: 'It's not equal trade for my life but I hope it helps evens the score. –M.'

She smiled but it's not enough to banish the gloom settling on her. Rosalee stands at the graveside, alone, free arm tucked under her sling, watching the reverend say the last of the eulogy; it's dry and unimaginative but she lets it go. She looks up and can't remember seeing so many different Wesen in one place at one time. It's not like this in The Hague; they all scurry about, hoping and praying not to be noticed by either the Council or the Royals. They're only trying to keep their heads down and get on with their lives.

It's a testament to her brother, she supposes. Not out of fear or force, but affection. He was beloved, a pillar of the community. He always did take his big brother role to heart, ever playing the mediator between her and Dietta's fights, taking her in when she had no other place to go. He wasn't perfect, but he'd been a good brother, the best one she'd ever had.

As the reverend says the final benediction, she notices two figures standing at a distance. Picking her way through the crowd, she finds Monroe and the Grimm.

"What are you doing here?" she wonders.

"Thought we'd come pay our respects," the Grimm insists.

"You do realize that most of that crowd is Wesen and if you get any closer, they'll all freak." She points out.

"She's right, dude."

"Well, I also came to deliver these." He hands over a sheaf of papers.

"What?" She skims over them and realizes they're court summons. "How? They said it may take months to get them in front of a judge..."

"I may have... pulled a few strings." He smiles like a cat with a canary feathers. "Besides, I think we got off on the wrong foot." He offers a hand. "I'm Nick," he reintroduces himself. "I'm a homicide detective and a Grimm on a learning curve."

She shakes his hand finally. "It's nice to meet you. I hope you don't decide to chop my head off."

That at least elicits a laugh from Monroe. She glances between the pair of them, smiling despite the day.

* * *

Thoughts? Reviews? I've never done an AU before on purpose-normally I'm a stick to the canon kinda gal.


	2. And, vaster

Hello again Lovlies! Thanks for staying tune for part 2 of my experiment!

I'd like to thank **WolfStar4 **for beta'ing and always being there for me to bounce ideas off as well as encouragement from **LittleBounce.**

Like I said, its going to be slight canon divergences that will slowly create a bigger canon divergence (good lord how many times can I use that word in a sentence).

PS. Please see the note at the end!

**Disclaimer: I own nothing at all, every twist is from my imagination but NBC owns everything else.**

* * *

"**...I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,/ some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent./ I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster."~ Elizabeth Bishop "One Art"**

* * *

She's only staying until she finds a replacement; she keeps telling herself as her customers introduce themselves and use her name as if they'd known her whole life. They recount entire family histories and ailments, showing her how they fit in here and where her place is too. They pick for details about her life in Den Haag, ranging from questions about the food and the language to what she did. The answer she always gives is always the same: "Consultant." For the most part, they welcome her as if she were one of them. She tells herself that it's because they need her knowledge, her books, and her parents' wisdom that she's rediscovering day by day.

The Grimm-Nick- she keeps reminding herself, keeps popping up, asking for her help with one case after another. And where Nick goes poking, she's learning, Monroe is always following (most times dragged) behind. Against every better judgment she's developed over the years, she saves both their numbers and assigns them their own ringtones. It's just easier to know when she's going on some wild ass goose chase that may or may not end up with one of them dead (thankfully, that still hasn't happened).

But she's still got De Groot's instructions to "be quite sure" about her brother's murder. "I need you to do something for me," She says to Nick the day after he gets back from his vacation with the elusive girlfriend. "I need to talk to the men who killed my brother.

He sighs and runs a hand over the back of his neck. "I don't-"

"Please. It's important."  
"It's not that I don't want to help, it's just that a lot of that is out of my hands."  
"You owe me." She grimaces. She didn't want to have to play that card but there it is. "For your police partner and your sergeant. And for the Seltenvogel."

He sighs. "Just tell me what you need to know and I'll find out." He pulls out his notebook and pen, ready to take down her questions.

"No, it has to be in person."

He groans. "All right. All right. It'll take me a few days to arrange it. But don't broadcast what I'm doing it's definitely against procedure."

He promised to help but it's been two weeks. Just as she's about to call him and bug him about it again, there's a bang on the door so loud the bell above shakes a little. She checks her watch; she's got ten minutes until she officially opens. She sneaks a peek through the window and gasps. "Ian?" She opens the door and pulls him in.

The moment she grasps him by the shoulders, he falls into her. She's immensely glad to be free of her sling. "Where's Freddy?" He groans against her shoulder. "I need..."

"Freddy's dead. He was murdered a month ago." She lifts her hand from his side and it comes away covered in blood. "Ian... what that-"

"Hundjäger." He spits.

"It wasn't-"

Ian nods solemnly. "Verrat."

"Shit..." She helps him to his feet and to the cot to lay him down. She eases his sweater and shirt off to get a better look. It's clean and the bullet isn't too far in. Based on his ability to still form semi-full sentences and find his way here without a car, there isn't serious internal damage; he's lucky it stopped before it hit his lung. But at some point, he'll need a doctor. A real one.

But, by the way, he's gritting his teeth, he needs something to relax him. She dips into her supply of jacine that she keeps hidden in the basement. She pours out the biggest dose he's comfortable with and heats it above the Bunsen burner flame. The smell of a thousand terrible choices, of nights when she forgot where the moon was wafts through her like a fog. She bits her lip and wills herself to focus.

As she dips the needle into the mixture and pulls the plunger back, he seems to remember where he is, who she is. "I thought you lived in The Netherlands...?"

"I do-I did. I'm taking a break for a while." She looks for a vein on his good arm.

"Those were good days..." He murmurs as she inserts the needle and pushes the plunger down. "Good food. Good view." His hand finds hers; she ignores how clammy it is, how much they shake and smiles for him, it's the least she can do. "Good you." His eyelids flutter and he drops off into what she hopes is a dreamless sleep. Rose waits until his hand goes limp in hers before she pulls it away.

Cupping her face in her hands for a moment, Rosalee takes a deep breath in to steady her quickly fraying nerves. As if being back in Portland wasn't enough of a blast from the past, here's Ian quietly bleeding all over it. "I'm not even supposed to be here." She hisses to him.

He hasn't changed much in the almost four year absence, except age. There are new lines around his eyes that weren't there before; she would know. His cheekbones are more defined, his skin weathered. New scars crisscross his chest and arms. He still smells the same and if she closes her eyes, ignores the blood; she travels back in time for a moment. She's back in his tiny studio flat in Amsterdam on Oosteinde Street, pretending the sun isn't coming up and that she doesn't have to go back to Den Haag alone.

A ringtone that's not hers sings out. She digs Ian's phone of his jeans pocket. 'Portland' calling scrolls across the screen. Her thumb hovers above accept button but instead changes her mind and sets it next to him. Ian twitches in his sleep and turns a little toward her, maybe having the same memories.

There's only person, she can think of to help get the bullet out. "_Guten Mogen_..." she murmurs when he picks up.

And of course, the first thing he says when he gets there twenty minutes later is: "I smell blood."

"Yeah," she lets him in. "Yeah, it's been one of those mornings."

"You didn't kill anyone, did you?"

"No, but if you don't help me, I am going to have a body that I'll need help getting rid of."

"Fair enough."

She leads him to the back room where Ian has thankfully stayed asleep. "Ian's an old friend." She scrubs her hand across her forehead. "And we can't send him to a hospital."

"Why not?"

"He was shot by a member of the Verrat."

Monroe looks down at him. "Are you serious? Verrat? Here?!"

She nods. "It's hard to believe, I know."

"So what do you need me to do?"

"If you're not too squeamish, I need you to help me get the bullet out. It's not far in but I need to clean the wound soon otherwise he could get blood poisoning or gangrene."

He rolls up his sleeves and asks what needs to be done first. She's got no right to ask him to help her with this and he's got no reason to do it. And yet here he is, helping her sanitize her tools to pull a bullet out of a complete stranger without an unreasonable amount of questions.

Monroe settles next to her, tools ready as she pulls her hair up and out of her face. Rose catches a glimpse of him grimacing when she takes the scalpel from him to slice the edge of the wound a little wider, and smirks.

"What?" He asks.

"It's still weird...you're a Blutbad...who doesn't like the sight or idea of blood. It still blows my mind a little."

"So how do you know him?" He wonders, changing the subject. "If he's gotten mixed up with the Verrat?"

"He was a friend of my brother's; we've known each other for a long time. Through my 'rough patch.'" She tests the other edge of the wound; blood flow has slackened to a trickle. "Hand me the pliers?" She looks up at him as he hands them over. "He lived in Amsterdam for a while when I lived in Den Haag."

"Do I even want to know what happened?"

She shrugs. "The same thing that always happens." She pulls the bullet out, and drops it onto a collection plate with a loud, satisfied clang. "We both got really into our work and fell apart."

Monroe nods in a familiar sort of way.

Rose covers the wound with gauze and tapes Ian up. "I don't know why I told that."

"Misery loves company, doesn't it?" He grins, clearly far from miserable-at least in this moment. But she can see in the way he smiles, the way he holds his hands steady, the way he saw the addict past right away, the way it's marked him. Shame doesn't always wash away in time; it clings and poisons and festers-if you let it, she's learned. And he hides it almost as well as he does. Though, for what exactly he's ashamed of, she's not sure yet. But it must have been terrible. And she wonders if he thinks the same thing of her; he has to.

She leads him over to the other side of the room, to let Ian rest a little more.

"He's not just an old friend is he?" He asks. "There's gotta be more."

"He's Laufer. Has been for a long while. He's pretty high up too."

"I still don't get why he's here. All that stuff is old country, you know."

She scrubs her fingers over her lower lip. "I'm not so sure anymore." She debates for a moment about whether or not to tell him about the mysterious phone call from 'Portland.'

He grimaces. "I'm going to make a suggestion that you're not going to like...ready?"

She nods.

"We should call Nick. See if there's anything he can do."

Nope. Instead she hems, "I might have used up my Nick favors for the week."

He pulls out his phone. "Fine, I'll call him. I think Ian might be waking up."

Just about he's about to leave, she places a hand on his arm. "Thank you."

"Anytime," he shrugs.

"No, really. You didn't have to do this for me."

He smiles. "That's what friends are for." He insists. "Besides no one's an island."

She lets him leave and goes to Ian who's groggily trying to get up. "Oh no...no, no." She pushes him back down. "You need to stay horizontal a little while longer. I shot some serious pain killers into you."

Ian turns. "Who's that?"

"He's...a friend. One who helped me dig that slug out of your side."

"One of us?" he wonders.

"Close enough," she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Blutbad. But not affiliated as far as I can tell."

Ian's eyes go wide. "Have you lost your bloody mind, Rosie?"

She shrugs. "Maybe. I did just bury my brother three weeks ago."

"Does he know who you work for?"

"Nope. Nobody does and I'm keeping it that way."

"Well this is a fine pickle."

"And it's about to get worse." She retorts. "Just you wait."

He closes his eyes a moment. "How? How can this possibly get worse?"

She checks to be sure Monroe is still on the phone. "Portland called. While you were asleep."

Ian grabs at his phone and starts flicking through all the missed calls. "You didn't answer, did you?"

"No, of course not. I though it might be something to do with..."

He redials, nodding. "Inez? It's Ian. I was...delayed. I can't meet you. But I can send someone."

'No' she mouths to him.

"She's a Calvert, a Fuschbau, and she can get whatever message you have for me. I trust her one hundred percent."

'You owe me big time.' She mouths at him.

* * *

Nick showing up goes about as well as Rose had hoped. He pulls his gun, but it never actually goes off, which is a serious plus. With a mini history lesson, Nick agrees to help as much as he able to with the Hundijager but doesn't want to know the extend that they're breaking—his word, not Ian or Rose's— the law. So, when he regains his balance and sense, she packs Ian off with Monroe to find a new shirt (at least, he can't go through an airport with a blossom of a bloodstain on the front; TSA would have a field day) and she goes to pick up his new passport and to meet this Inez.

She follows Ian's directions down to Davis and 2nd, on the edge of Chinatown. While during the day the area was perfectly fine, at night it wasn't a place many tourists tended to wander.

Feeling stupid, she plants herself against the nearest wall, hardening her expression against the night and the hooded figures that walked past. Perception was half the battle, she learned over the years. Give them a few details and let them draw their own conclusions. Let them see what they want to see.

"Calvert..." A low voice comes out of nowhere.

Glancing around, Rosalee pushes herself off the wall. "Here."

She was like a doll; her nose just barely reaches Rose's shoulder. In the pool of streetlight, Rose could see her skin is a honey gold and her cascading curls fight valiantly against their restrains. Inez narrowed her eyes and woges into her Rißfleisch face under her hood. The stripes across her cheeks disappear and re-appear in the shadows as she moves. "How do I know Ian's still alive?" Rosealee can't guess her age; at one angle she looks to be no more than fifteen. And it breaks her heart to think that the Laufer was recruiting someone so young. Then again, Ian had been that young. And so had she, once.

Rose rolls her eyes. "Trust me or don't, but I have places to be."

Inez glances once more at her before pulling out a slim manila envelope from her messenger bag. "Its for Ian. Only." She stresses, her voice more growl than anything.

"Yeah, I figured that. Any other messages you need me to pass along?"

Inez motions for her to come closer. "Tell him, we're keeping an eyes out for the Pauper."

"Fine. Will do." She sticks the envelope in her jacket to keep the drizzle off. When she looks up, Inez had already back into the shadows and was gone. Rose rolls her eyes at the melodrama and heads to the camera shop; Ian's passport has to be done by now.

Everyone's squirrely tonight, afraid to meet one another's eye. There has to be a full moon, she decides as she looks through the passport. She smiles and asks what's the charge. Reggie insists on taking nothing, as an 'I'm sorry for your brother'. Everything seems to be in order until she finds a business card with the words: "I'm sorry. I had no choice. He is an agent of the Verrat" written on it.

She sticks the passport in the envelope and gives him one last smile, hoping he wouldn't pay for tipping her off and heads back to the shop.

Rose got used to living with certain amount of fear, fear of being caught out in a lie, of letting something slip. It became a part of her day, like pulling on her shoes or drinking coffee. Fear was healthy, Alexander taught her. _Fear keeps you on your toes; fear keeps you alive._ Fear became a background noise, a constant and a lifestyle. It has its peaks and valleys and its oddly reassuring to feel it rise up her spine now. She's being followed, she's sure of it.

She pulls out her phone and dials Monroe's number. "I'm being watched." She mutters before he can say a word. "You have to take Ian somewhere safe. And find another way to get him out of here. I've got a Hundjäger on my tail."

"But where-"

She hangs up and keeps right on walking, sure her shadow is right behind her the whole way back.

Once she's through the door, she goes directly to the counter and throws both envelopes under the till and reaches for the box cutters she's left out since the last time. She tries to make herself look busy as the bell above the door rings out. She keeps her face calm and composed, despite the fact that it was drilled into her head that Agents of the Council do not engage with Agents of the Verrat unless there are no other options.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I was told I could get some here." He's in his late forties to fifties if she had to guess by the weathering of his face. But his voice is clipped and breaks in odd places; the accent's too practiced to be real. The stink of Hundjäger oozes through the door.

"We're actually closed," she replies in an even tone. "I just forgot to flip the sign." Under the counter, she grips box cutters.

He smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes. "You should really lock the door. Never know who's going to pop through the door."

"No, I guess not. But if you come back tomorrow, I'll be happy to help."

He pulls out a gun instead and her stomach drops to her knees. "Where is he?" He growls in German.

"Not here." She replies, also in German. She could turn on the tears and play it dumb but it would only prolong the game. And she realizes that she's so goddamned tired of it.

And of course, her phone starts ringing again. Monroe. She can tell by the ringtone.

He smiles gently and indicates that she should answer it. "You have to go now." She says before he can get a word in.

"What?! Why? Rosal-"

He takes the phone from her. "Done?"

"By all means." She offers him a sarcastic half-curtsey.

He plucks it out of her fingers and demands Ian delivered to him in the next fifteen minutes, or else. He clicks off the phone and hands it to her, as if he was only asking the time. Her fingers flex on the box cutters as he takes a step closer, but the gun is too close, he's too focused. "It's refreshing to find someone who speaks so fluently," he starts in German. "Where are you from?"

"Here and there."

He waves his gun back and forth, contemplating her answer. "Laufer or just caught up with the wrong man? Hard to tell."

Silence is always best and so she keeps it up through his monologue, trying to find anything she might be able to use against him; she doesn't fancy getting shot again. And this time he's at a much closer range.

"You look familiar," he muses. "Are you sure we haven't met before?"

"I think I would remember," she replies. "I don't make a point of familiarizing myself with Hundjäger."

He barks with laughter and goes on. "Your German sounds a bit...Dutch. Tell me, have you spent much time in The Netherlands?"

"What's it matter to you? Either, they show up in fifteen minutes and you kill us all or they don't and you kill me anyway."

"Oh, I have a feeling, they'll show up." He checks his watch and frowns. "Maybe not. They only have five minutes. Perhaps, they are not so fond of you."

If he thinks that'll break her, he really must not know how to read people at all. She's built a career out of people not being fond of her. She tries to stand on her tiptoes to peek out of the window, when she turns back to him; the smile has disappeared from his face entirely. "Your partner...is the Pflichttreue..." The recognition is all too real in his voice, and its like ice down her spine.

She grips the box cutters even harder.

"Your partner, he survived that attack?"

A thousand curses run through her mind. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"It is you." He smiles triumphantly, as if she were a long lost friend he'd been looking for. "I heard you took took down Louis Sheera, dismantled his whole operation..." He replies in awe. "Brava, _mein_ _Shatz_, brava."

Perhaps it's Alexander's nickname for her on his lips but she brings up the boxcutters, fingers clenching and white knuckled on the handle. "You do realize that you're not walking out of this city alive now, don't you?" At least she's not going down unarmed.

He laughs. "Well, time's up." He straightens his gun arm toward her and pulls back the hammer.

Nick bursts through the door, claiming he's got Ian. The double-crossing fucker. And then Monroe.

"Where is he?" The Hundjäger growls. "Where is the Laufer scum?" He turns to her. "You, vixen? What have you done?"

She just shrugs. "I told you," she says in German. "He's not here."

The Hundjäger steps closer but suddenly comes crashing toward her; the gun goes off and she barely has time to hit the ground when the jars to her left shatter. There's a moment of unbearable silence before she lifts her head to see Monroe almost face to face with her. "Are you okay?" They both demand and she can't help the stupid smile of relief that crosses her face when he smiles.

He helps her to her feet, as Nick keeps his gun on the Hundjäger, who's shouting about order and chaos and words that don't quite reach her ears.

"Ian!" Nick calls out. "Ian, don't do this! Put the gun down!"

"I'm sorry, Detective," Ian replies, pointing the Hundjäger's. "But this is the only way to keep your friends safe."

Monroe steps between her and the Hundjäger. Ian points Waltz's gun in his un-slinged hand (she knew that thing would come in handy) at the Verrat tattoo on his upturned hand. Ian glances only at her, searching.

They both know what needs to be done, despite Nick's protests. In the world they come from, they are not graced with such options, such choices. There is usually only one, and it's usually bloody. Rose shakes her head at Ian; . Still, she closes her eyes as the gun goes off and the Hundjäger sputters out one last breath.

Somehow, in all that, she focuses only on Monroe's hand on her elbow, the small patch of warmth in the sudden chill of the shop as the metallic smell of gunpowder floats through the air.

* * *

She puts Ian in her car, handing him the envelope and tells him to give her a minute. She catches Monroe before he goes back in.

"You okay" he asks her before she can say anything.

"I'm fine...Are you ...okay?"

"Strangely enough...yeah."

She pauses; everything in the last twelve hours speeds across vision a second time. And it happens so fast. "I just wanted to wanted to say thank you, again. If it hadn't been for you, we'd probably both be dead."

He shrugs. "Couldn't let that happen. You're part of the team now."

"Moving dead bodies and spiriting fugitives away in the dead of night." She smiles. "We should make jackets."

"Now that you say it out loud..." he smiles even bigger and she can't help but match him.

"I should go." She gestures back at the car. "There's a flight to Heathrow he should be able to make. If we step on it."

"Tell him good luck for me."

And while every instinct she tells her this is a bad idea, all of it— said 'here's a situation that you _should_ be afraid of. And you should not walk back to Den Haag, you should run'— she feels it receding instead. In its place, grows something much more dangerous: attachment. Not even just to these two idiots who valiantly and thoughtlessly threw in their lot together for the common good that wasn't going to end well for anyone, but to _her_ shop (as she thinks of it suddenly and possessively now), and to the people who came and went, who welcomed her back. "I...will." She climbs back in the car with Ian and takes off on five in the direction of the airport.

"Interesting group of friends you have there, Rosie." Ian sighs, leaning thought the headrest.

"Very. If you told me a month ago, I would have thought you were insane."

"I still think you're mad for trusting them."

"Well, I don't have a ton of options here, Ian. I've got to work with what I've got."

"Really, though, why are you back?  
She glares at him for a moment before turning her attention back to the road. "Freddy's dead. Someone has to take his place."

"That's not all."

She sighs. "I'm seeing the men who murdered my brother tomorrow. I need to be sure they weren't put up to it. Paid off, or made it look like robbery gone bad."

"You need to know or De Groot needs to know?"

"Both."

"And what will you do in the mean time? Play shopkeeper? Assist the Grimm?" He spits the last part.

"I'll do what I have to do. I was an Apothecary for a while, if you remember. My parents trained me too, it wasn't just Freddy." She gestures to Portland in their rearview mirror. "I'm here to get information and that's it."

Ian says nothing for a moment.

"And then it's back to my life, back to Den Haag," She sighs and glances over at him. "Inez wanted me to tell you that they're watching for the Pauper."

He nods. "I worry about you, you know."

"I worry about you too, especially after you show up on my doorstep bleeding." She pulls up to the departure's curb, and she helps him out. She hugs him, careful of his arm. Before they let go, Ian cups the back of her neck. "Take care, love." He mutters like a secret.

"You, too." She presses a kiss to his cheek, infusing all her affection in this one concentrated spot for him to take along. "No more bullets."

"No more bullets," he promises as she pulls away.

She leans against the side of the car until he disappears through the doors and she can't see him anymore.

* * *

Rose keeps her calm as their feet echo on the linoleum. Nick is quiet beside her, only speaking up to point the way toward the visiting cell. He hasn't asked about Ian and probably won't. Its best for him to know as little as possible. Besides, she'll be gone soon anyway.

The guard slams the door behind them, Nick says a few words to him and the guard disappears.

Joshua leans back as far as the shackles around his ankles will allow but he doesn't turn to look at his visitors.

"I'm sure you remember me." Rose sits opposite him at the table.

He nods silently, eyes never leaving where their folded hands lie between them.

"You killed my brother and I want to know why."

He shrugs.

"That's not a good enough answer. Why did you kill him?"

"I think you better answer her," Nick chimes in. "She's the one who dropped you."

Joshua finally looks up at her. "Clint did it. He's the one who shot him-your brother. I told him not to."

"Why though?"

He shrugs again.. His pale face sticks out against the orange jumpsuit. His hands, still in their shackles, shake just a touch. "We thought it'd be easy. Go in, grab the stuff. He was the only one there. And then he attacked Clint, so...you know. He defended himself."

"Where is Clint?"

"He's sick." Joshua says, emphasizing the 'sick' part. "Caught the flu real bad."

"I'll bet he did." Rose replies. "I had the flu once too.

His eyes widen just a touch. "Never would have thought so, Traitor."

"What did you call me, Murder?"

Nick's already up from leaning against the door, walking toward them. She holds up a hand.

"No, see, I was convicted of theft, assault with a deadly weapon, evading arrest and an _accessory_ to murder." He grins. "You used a _Grimm _to find me. Of all things, a freaking Grimm. That's cheating."

"Trust me." She leans in closer and bares her teeth for him. "He wanted to find you. And if I'd gotten to you first, he would have. In pieces. You better be thanking him that he didn't turn me loose." Finally, he leans back in the chair at the sight of her. "You won't be so lucky next time." She gets up and walks to the door.

Clint's handcuffs clink like a wind chime in a thunderstorm; he shakes just as badly as she had four days into her detox. Everything had been too bright, too loud, she remembered vividly, the smell of the shop made her nauseous for days.

"Why'd you kill my brother?" She asks quietly.

He looks up at her, eyes dark in his unnaturally pale face, lips almost blue and skin so sallow it's practically translucent. His mouth flaps but sets into a line again.

"Why did you do it"

"I...I didn't mean to...I just..." his shoulders drop and he starts to cry. " It-I didn't mean to."

Rosalee watches him weep without saying a word. She was this pale once too; skin gone yellow and hair ratty with snarls. The days she spent in the holding cells seemed to stretch on and on and on as the withdrawls hit her. There was no one to hold her hand, to walk her through the alternating hot flashes and cold spells. She lay there on that cardboard mattress and swore to whatever gods were listening that she'd stop this time for sure.

He meets her eye finally. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...I just-"

"Nobody put you up to it?"

He looks bewildered for a moment. "No...no, we knew that he had the stuff and-"

She holds her hand up and gets up. Just as she's about to walk past him she stops and says: "I was like this once too. Be better."

She gets to Nick and lays a hand on the barred door. "Let's go. We're done here."

* * *

As much as I would love to promise to have the next section up in the next two weeks, I can't. I've got a huge project in the first two weeks of February and I can't promise I'm going to have a lot of time. I've already started but it might be a bit of a wait for the last installment of this arc.

Also, would anyone like to know what songs I listen to while I write these arcs? Not that you need to know but if anyone is curious let me know. I'll make a note at the start of the chapters.


	3. I shan't have lied

Holy crap guys I am so sorry about the long wait. I could go into detail about my term and it's craziness but I won't. Here it is the last one-shot in this particular arc. I'm already working on the new one!

So, some of the songs I was listening to while writing this incase you were wondering: "Hello My Old Heart"- The Oh Hellos (THIS IS AN AMAZING SONG OMG) "Bad Blood"-Bastille

Dislcaimer: I own nothing at all

* * *

"**I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master / though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster – " Elizabeth Bishop "One Art"**

* * *

The little blue house on North Mohawk street hasn't changed at all. The yard is still wild and the vines have crept farther up the sides of the house. The rusting pick-up in the driveway hasn't moved an inch in three-almost four years. Even in broad daylight, it holds an air of night and secrets and all the deeds she's ashamed to admit to out loud. It's where it all started with a blonde mistake with fast hands, sharp smirk who promised her the best night of her life.

No one will be up, except for those sober enough to hold onto their jobs. Rose herself, slept through many boss' last good graces on the stained green couch in the living room. The crash after the high brought no dreams and she kept chasing after the deep black void; anything to drown out her mother's crying and DeEtta's righteous indignation.

But she knocks anyway. There's only silence. So, she knocks again.

Travis' familiar face appears; she'd recognize that lazy, narcissistic smile anywhere. Fucker. "Rosie?" he smiles sleepily at her and leans against he door frame. "Have fun? Back for more?"

"No," she growls. "No, I'm not. Clint Vickers. Joshua Hall. Know 'em?"

He nods, standing straighter. "They're doing time."

"Fifteen each." She replies. "I put them there."

Travis steps back.

"It's what happens when you kill members of my family."

"What'd ya what? Who'd they kill?"

She grabs him by his shirt collar. "Don't play stupid with me," she growls. "How many poker games did I take you for everything you had while I was high as a kite? I smell out liars for a living."

Travis puts up both his hands in surrender. "I'm not a liar. I had nothing to do with it. I don't want cops to come sniffin' around? You know better than that! You remember!" He was always careful, it's true. For all the stupid things they did back in the day, they tried to keep a low profile. It wasn't until after her appetite had grown that she drifted away from Travis, running with crowds who did not hold themselves to any rules.

Of course she remembered, some days it was all she could see. And she regretted taking that first inhale just to impress him, to see that lazy smile. "You better keep it that way. There's a Grimm on the police force. One toe out of line—"

He goes paler than usual. "The fuck are you doing, Rosalee?"

"What I have to. If I hear that you've been lying to me, there's going to be hell to pay."

She shoves him back and turns to make her way back to her car, parked two blocks away and one block up, just in case. She slams the door and locks it. She grips the steering wheel, trying to focus her adrenaline elsewhere. It'd be easier to blame someone, to extract revenge, to make someone else suffer as she has. An accident; a mistake means she has nowhere else to go. There are no more leads to follow up on, no one to chase down. You can't squeeze blood from a stone, she's learned over the years.

She grabs her phone and dials De Groot. "_Guten Abend_, Frau Calvert; I expected a check in weeks ago."

"I'm sorry, I was following down leads. You said you wanted me to be 'quite sure.' "

"I did. So what are you quite sure about?"

"It was an accident. There's no evidence of foul play; just sheer stupidity."

He's quiet a moment. "You will still need to file a report in writing, of course." He says. "Have you found a replacement?"

She bites her lower lip before answering. "...No...I haven't. I- I wanted to request for some time off. Officially."

"I see. Can we rely on you to be the Contact for the time being?"

"Yes, of course. I just need some...quiet."

"I propose that you take leave until the Sheera trial. A tentative date has been set for October, but we'll see if we can't move it up some. When you return for the trial, we will discuss your choices and proceed from there."

"That sounds fair."

"Please let us know if there is anything you need, Frau Calvert. Your father would have been very proud of the work you've done for us. We'd like to help you in any way we can."

Rose bids him _Auf Wiedersehen*_ and _danke*_, his last sentiment settling around her shoulders like a shawl, weighing her down. The only thing is, she's not sure if he would be proud. Then again, she hadn't given him much reason to be proud while he was alive.

* * *

*good-bye

*thank you

* * *

Her phone rings out in the dark, shattering the quiet. Her fingers fumble over it a few times before she turns off the alarm. It's too early and she might have had a bit too much wine last night finishing her report to De Groot.

But her alarm won't turn off no matter how many times she flicks at the screen. Swearing in Dutch (something she learned within a week of arriving in Den Haag) and finally looking at it, "_Ja_? _Was wollen Sie? Es ist fünf!?*_" She whines.

"_Ich bedauere wirklich*_...but we've got a problem."

"Is the problem that you called before six and I haven't had any coffee yet?" She burrows back down under her new yellow coverlet and jersey sheets again. "Because that's the main problem I'm sensing here."

"It's Juliette—"

"Did Nick finally tell her?"

"Well...he tried." Monroe hems. "She's in a coma."

She sits up, and then winces at her own stupidity as her temples throb. "What? How?"

"We were sort of hoping that you could help with that."

"Help how? I'm not a doctor. I told you I only made it a semester in med school before I dropped out." It'd slipped out three weeks ago when he popped by the shop, as was the norm now, to bring her coffee or just to chat or even help out now and then.

"Well, Adalind had something to do with it."

Rose swore it in Dutch again. "I told Nick not to mess with witches! You told Nick not to mess with witches! And what does he do? Messes with witches! How did she do it?!"

He heaves a sigh. "Cat scratch."

"Ooh...that's good. That's brilliant. It'll keep the doctors busy running useless test for ages. Can you get the cat?"

"Already done."

"Meet me at the shop in half an hour. You both owe me coffee. Several times over."

"I'm walking to the coffee place now."

"I need two shots at this hour, by the way."

* * *

*What do you want? It's five!

*I'm really sorry...

* * *

Adalind may be brilliant but it's on the cruel side, Rose notes when she finally sees the cat curled up against the door in agony. It's paws flex uncontrollably and claw against the plastic crate. Its back arches almost to the point of snapping in two. She cups her hand over her mouth, considering from all angles

Monroe peeks in as well. "What's wrong with it?"

"_Alles*_?" She hazards a guess. "We'll have to test the cat's claws before I can even guess what she did. And then we'll have to do some reverse engineering."

He looks back at her. "How?"

She grabs at a book of recipes and flips through to one that she watched her brother make for her when she was going through detox "We're gonna knock it out first. Or at least calm it down." She pulls down a bowl and a few ingredients. "Don't worry." She smiles and pats him on the shoulder as she passes. "I won't let the crazy kitty get you."

Monroe smiles and follows after her, grabbing the ingredients she needs off the high shelves. She tries hard to keep her smile to herself; she doesn't need to encourage him anymore.

He finds every excuse to be at the shop, and by now she's heard them all: in the neighborhood, favorite coffee place is nearby. For the first week or two, she rolled her eyes and made shooing motions every time she had customers. She called him a distraction and clumsy (he really isn't, in fact, he is an odd sort of graceful, especially his hands) but with a smile. But on days like this, especially with Nick's involvement, she doesn't mind, he's smart and helpful and always has a terribly perfect clock joke. They slip in and out of German, sometimes mashing up the words, and she forgets where they are, if only for a short while. But every so often she catches him looking at her like a puzzle, he can't quite find all the pieces to.

Rose starts on the calming potion for the cat; he's there to hand her whatever she needs next, almost as if he can read her mind. There's little need to lie to him, except for the occasional fib to cover a detail or a date or a name. He knows, suspects at least, that something's off. There are parts and pieces missing from her story; she can see him trying to pinpoint it exactly but she's interwoven them so well, it would take years to unravel.

When the potion's ready and they slip it under the cover on the cat's cage, Rosalee starts the testing solution. "So what did Nick do to piss her off?" She asks. "Besides, you know, taking her powers. What started them off at each other's throats?"

Monroe shrugs. "She tried to kill his aunt. And then, of course, she messed around with Hank."

She glances up. "Remind me why again?"

He turns and fixes her with a steely glare. "His aunt was Marie Kessler. I don't think she needed a reason."

Of course, he's related to the Kesslers, she reasons. Of all the Grimms in all the world to take on her brother's murder... "Besides that. Why was she messing with Hank?"

"To get to Nick, she wanted something from him."

"It seems sort of odd...don't you think? Hexenbiests don't usually do...what they do without some kind of provocation. And they don't usually go after Grimms." Or maybe it was just the ones she knew.

"I don't know about you but I'd really rather not try to get into a Hexenbiest's mindset." He just shakes his head at her and dons the oven mitts she dug out of storage. "Are you sure about this?"

"Don't you trust me?" She wonders.

Monroe grimaces again and reaches in. All the fight has gone out of the creature and it lies boneless between his hands. Still, he holds it as far from him as possible as he brings it over. "What are we doing again?"

"If the solution turns yellow then it'll cut down on the amount of research we have to do, because everything that it could be will literally be in one book." She guides the cat's front paws into the mixture. "And if it's green...I might still be able to help her; though, it's going to be a little trickier than previously planned."

The solution turns a shocking blue. "And blue? Good or bad?"

Rose lifts the cat a little. "_Scheiße*_...! " She hisses. "Goddamn Hexenbiests..." And goes straight to her bookshelf.

"What?! What is it?" Monroe holds the cat aloft, spinning around trying to see what she sees. "Is it the cat?!"

"Sorry! Just put the cat back in his cage and come help me." She pulls down all her books on memory loss and hands them to Monroe when he appears next to her.

"So... what's up?"  
"Nothing good."

"Yeah, I can see that."

She just shrugs and hops down off her ladder and they settle in the nook to start looking. They pour through a dozen books before Rose finds a lesser-known but nasty little spell in the margins of one of the oldest books in her collections.

"This is so not good." She mutters going over the effects. "This is so not good at all."

"What's it doing?"

She looks up. "The spell Adalind used isn't meant for a live host. It's frying the cat's nervous system; it's killing it..."

He looks horrified. "And Juliette?"

"Oh it's doing that to her too, except it's attacking her memories specifically."

"So, now we know what it is, we can fix her."

"Well," She bites her lower lip, grabbing another and starting with the table of contents. "We'll have to see after we've figured out how to stop the memory loss. One thing at a time." _Like Dad used to say. _ "We need to be looking for something that'll counteract the _Scutellaria lateriflora_."

"So something that's scouring? Like St. John's Wort?" He guesses.

She smiles. "You've been spending waaay too much time with me."

He smiles too, but says nothing.

Even with the emergency status, Rose can't help but relax a little amid the books, passed down from generation to generation; her inheritance smelling like mold, old dust and age. Sometimes, when it's late and she can't seem to focus or sleep, she lays her head cheek down, nose in the spine of the books and inhales deeply. It never fails to send her dreaming back to her childhood, back to when DeEtta and Freddy were both there, listening to her mother reading off recipes like fairy tales. In those quiet moments between waking and sleeping, she imagines her father's hand on her back, between her skinny shoulder blades like he used to when he came home late after a hard day and would check on all of them to be sure they were breathing..

Back in the days following his death, it haunted her to no end: the phantom hand on her back. So, she ran to get lost and stay lost; she seemed to escape it for a while even. And now, she's nose deep in her father's books, in her brother's store, taking up the torch. Funny how that works.

Her stomach turns, though, at the L'espirit Ailleus and what it entails. "Hand me the green one?" She points to a huge book with a thousand sticky notes on the page edges.

"I really hope that one will work...Because I've got nothing that even remotely looks like it might help. Most of this one is about..." he grimaces. "Wesen with hairball issues..."

She flips through it until she hits a page with an ancient post-it written in her father's steady hand:_ Hexenbiest_. Rose checks over the ingredients and compares them to what's in the L'espirit Ailleus. "I think I can stop the memory loss but I'm not sure I can wake her up." She runs her fingers through her hair. "I hate Hexenbiests...they're smart and vindictive. It's a terrible combination. It's why you never trust the pretty ones."

"That's not always true." That saying about words not breaking bones...such a lie and Rose would know. She looks up from her book at him; it's like getting shot all over again; except right through the chest this time.

"Yes, it is." She reasons, grabbing the book and heading to her worktable. "Didn't your mother ever warn you about pretty Fuschbau? She really should have." Instead of cocky and all knowing, her voice comes out small and sad as she starts pulling down ingredients. "They'll take you for everything you've got. And you'd never even know."

His face falls. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, come on, you know something's off. You've known since..." she gestures to the vague middle distance. "Since day one..."

"I figured you'd tell when you were ready. Like I said before, 'no judgment.'" And the worst part is that he means it.

"The funny thing about people is that you give them a few details and they see what they want to, maybe not exactly what's in front of them."

His face falls a little. "So, you're not really a consultant for Interpol?"

"I am, in so many words."

"You're not really an Apothecary?"

"I was trained to be one. My parents taught me too. And Freddy really was my brother."

"Then...I don't see what's different."

She leans against the side of the table and crosses her arms over her chest. "I came here as an agent of the Wesen Council, investigating my brother's death."

There's a beat of silence between them.

"And now...?" He wonders.

"What do you mean, 'And now?'"

"You said you _were_ an agent of the Wesen Council. 'Were' being past tense..."

"_Mein Gott_," she curses and rolls her eyes. "You really do pay attention, don't you? I took some time off. I'm not active duty right now."

"What did you do? For real?"

"I..."She opens her mouth and then quickly closes it.

"Come on, it's the least you can do. After you lied." But he smiles.

"How about a trade? I tell you something true if you tell me something true back? We've got a few hours to kill until Nick is off shift and the solution's gonna have a very long while to cook." Rose clicks on the Bunsen burner and sets to work.

"I'm an open book," he assures her. "What you see is what you get."

They exchange truths like trading cards all afternoon while the solution sets on her worktable. Some silly (she's still a little terrified of getting her finger caught in the toaster after Freddy told her that she'd get shocked to death if she tried to grab the bagel before it was ready), some sentimental (he still has the Bug because it was the first car he ever bought and he's going to do his damnedest to be sure it's the last). And then, he asks the big one, just as the sun starts to go down: "Have you ever killed anyone?"

"Not directly. But my work has resulted in deaths. You?"

He pauses, looking down at his hands. "Yep," he lets out in a low breath. "And I don't have the excuse you and Nick have."

"It doesn't feel like an excuse."

"I wasn't...a good person ten years ago. I didn't think things through you know?"

"I was a mess too: selfish and small. I'd like to think I'm better but..." She shrugs. "Sometimes I wonder if that's who I really am, and I just pretend really well."

"You really aren't as bad as you make yourself out to be." He says, a smile working it's way across his face. "If you were, we wouldn't be here trying to help a woman you've never met, who happens to be the girlfriend of a Grimm."

Rose realizes suddenly it's been a long time since she spent an afternoon, or two or five or ten, being this honest with someone. It's like taking a deep breath after a long swim, seeing the sun again after a long winter. Even with Ian, whom she could tell what she really did, who she'd been in the past, so much had been lies of omission, for each other's own good. "Neither are you," she replies, smiling too. "You may be big and you may be a wolf, but you are not bad. Not to me at least."

Monroe straightens, looking up at her. "So..." She knows that drawl all to well.

"So..." it's the only thing she can think to say back. She makes the mistake of glancing up from the solution only to find him smiling in _that_ way. And it's not that she hasn't thought about it...it's hard not to with the way he smiles, his kindness that unnerved her at first.

"I've been thinking—"

Her phone rings out and she flips it on to see Alexander name flashing. "_Scheiße_-_Schade,_ I have to take this."

Monroe waves it off and returns to the reading alcove while she accepts the call and steps into the front room. "_Ja_?"

"I read your report." Alexander says without preamble of any kind. "De Groot told me that you weren't coming home."

Rose presses her hand to her forehead. "I just need some time...Besides I took over my brother's...you know-everything. I can't just up and leave now!"

"There is a Grimm on the police force, _Schatz_! You're going to get yourself killed! It's only a matter of time before he shows his true colors!"

"Ian got to you, didn't he?"

"I may have spoken with a certain member of the Laufer as he passed through. He's worried too."

She has to swallow down her anger. "De Groot seems to trust my judgment. So did you once."

"Death undoes us, _Schatz_. You're no exception. You're not thinking clearly."

"My thinking was clear enough to pull a bullet out of his side and get him out of the country," she growls right back.

Alexander heaves a deep sigh. "So you're staying."

"I'll be back for the trial, whenever that is."

"You'll call me if you have any trouble?"

"I will," she promises with no intent to follow through on it.

"_Auf Wiedersehen_, then _Schatz._"

"_Auf Wiedersehen..._" She clicks off the call and leans against the door for a moment before turning back to the task at hand.

* * *

*Everything?

*shit

*shit-sorry,

* * *

The house is a mess; pieces of shattered chairs and coffee tables are everywhere. Glass crunches under their feet and the smell of sweat and blood lingers in the air.

"_Mein Gott*_..." she mutters.

"Well," Monroe whispers. "Now we know why he won't answer."

She reaches out to grip his wrist, to keep him from taking another step. "Something's not right."

Nick appears, face bloody and bruised. "Hey—what are you guys doing here?"

"We tried to call," Monroe starts. "But it looks like you've been...busy."

"Kimura paid me a surprise visit and—" But he doesn't get the rest out. A dark shape flies out of the corner of the room, tackling Monroe to the ground.

As soon as the figure produces a knife big enough to sever a jugular, Rose woges without thinking and ducks under Nick's outstretched arm. She hits the figure all in black square in the torso and they topple over each other a few times. Rose grabs for the knife hand and slams it against the floor until it falls from the woman's fingers. She hisses in the woman's face; she wasn't there to help her brother but she's going to be damned if someone tries to take her friends from her.

The woman growls right back, wiggling one arm free and uppercuts her. Rose sees a burst of sudden indoor stars, almost loses her grip on the grip on the woman's willowy arms. Vaguely the words: "ROSEALEE!" and "My mother..." and "Not dead" are bandied about but she's more focused on the woman beneath her who's scrambling for a handhold. She reaches back to give the woman in black a taste of her own medicine when a pair of huge hands hauls her off and set her on her feet once more. She's not even sure of whom it is until she hears Monroe say to her: "Hey there, Champ. Let's, you know, not kill Nick's mom."

Rose bristles once more in the direction of the human shape on the ground before retracting. Monroe frowns, already reaching to wipe the blood out of the corner of her lip. She winces at the sudden sting but more so at not seeing the hit coming. "I'm fine." She murmurs to him, all the while glaring at the woman in black.

"...Fuschbau..." The shape complains as Nick helps her up. "Are you serious Nicky?"

"They're my friends." He steps between her and them. "This is Rosalee and Monroe, friends of mine. Guys, this is my mom, Kelly."

"So clearly you two haven't done any sort of catching up, then?" Monroe asks.

"Been a little busy," Nick insists.

"Listen, we only stopped by because we think we can help Juliette. And we tried calling—"

Nick turns, eyes wild. "What?! How?" While the woman beside him asks: "Juliette? Who's Juliette?"

Monroe nudges Rose, who's rubbing her jaw and testing for loose teeth. "The spell Adalind put on her is eating away at her memory. I've got something setting up at the shop. But it won't be ready until the tomorrow."

"And then she'll wake up?  
Rose grimaces. "I'm still working on that part but we should stop the memory loss first."

"You're going to trust this...vixen—" The woman snorts. Monroe tries to push past Nick at that. "—And her Blutbad boyfriend?"

"Not the first time I've been called that," Rose assures Monroe quietly. "Besides...it's a little true." Neither of them address the second comment.

"They're my friends." Nick declares again, louder. "And they've saved me...more times than I can count."

Kelly glares at both of them, eyes lingering on Rose a moment or two longer. That same piercing stare Nick gave her the first time they met sends shivers down Rose's spine. "You sure about that?"

Nick glares at his mother before turning to the pair of them. "Thanks guys. I really appreciate it. But maybe..." he nods towards the door.

They take his advice and head to the door. "Maybe we'll give you some space..."

"Just while my mom's here," he promises. "But I'll meet you at the hospital tomorrow? What time?"

Rosalee checks her watch. "Four. It'll be done at four and we only have a small window to time while the solution is good."

"How small is small?"

Monroe holds his thumb and forefinger up an inch apart. "Tiny, man. Like forty-five minutes. We've got to be fast."

"I will call you when I'm ten minutes out. I promise. Until then, take Sugar Ray, here," he nods at Rosealee. "...home and get something on her jaw for the swelling."

* * *

*My God

* * *

As accustomed as Rose'd become to Nick, his mother is the monster from her childhood stories. There is no pity in her dark eyes and the scars around her face speak more of the death she dealt than any tragedy. And Rose is more grateful than she'd like to admit when Monroe steps between them, hand on the small of her back. Now, she can go back to the shop, far far from this nightmare in the shape of a woman and keep looking to find something to lift Juliette out of the coma.

"Can you two give my mom a ride back?" Nick asks, phone in hand. "Everyone's going to be cool?" He looks directly at Rose for this.

"Yeah," Monroe answers for the both of them. "If everyone's okay with it."

"I am," Kelly replies, though it come out deep and guttural.

"I'll be fine if everyone keeps their knives to themselves." Rose insists, running her fingers over the purple and red blossom on her chin.

Of course no one pulls any knives of any kind during the drive back. Though the uneasy silence is a little oppressive.

"So, how do you like Portland?" Monroe starts.

Beside him, Rose closes her eyes and squeezes the bridge of her nose.

"It's a very ...strange city, I suppose."

"I don't know if you've done much sightseeing but-"

"My son...he trusts you. Both of you."

Rose turns back to find the most puzzled expression on Kelly's face.

"Yeah, I trust him too."

Kelly turns to her. "And you?"

Rose nods. "I trust him. He keeps us safe and we keep him safe."

That seems to satisfy her and she leans back against the seat for the rest of the ride. And it's the longest she and Monroe have spent not talking. Rose breathes out a sigh of relief when they turn the corner to Nick's house. She climbs out and lets Kelly pull herself through the car door.

Kelly marches straight toward the porch and for a moment, Rose thinks that this must be it. But Kelly turns just before she gets to the steps. "This..." she gestures to them. "Doesn't make an ounce of sense to me."

_No shit, Sherlock_, Rose wants to spit, but keeps her mouth shut. No reason to break the whole no knives agreement as they'd been doing so well.

Beside her, Monroe shrugs as well. "It really doesn't to us either. But so far it's worked."

Kelly regards both of them solemnly.. "You do realize the danger you're putting yourselves in, standing with my son. Not just other Grimms, but your own kind...the Royals..."

Rose finds her voice before Monroe does. "He's trying to do the right thing. And he's doing it by himself. It's the least we can do."

For a moment, Kelly's hard expression crumbles; stripped of her Grimm persona, her hard scars and frown-set mouth, Kelly seems more familiar. In that same window of time, Rose sees her own mother, sad and alone. Or at least it was how she always imagined how her mother must have looked at her father's funeral.

And then suddenly, the walls are back up. "Thank you. Both of you."

"Anytime." Monroe insists.

"For today. And helping my son...when I couldn't be there. Keep an eye on him?"

"We try." He promises.

Kelly gives one last curt nod and turns up the steps and disappears into the house.

Without a word, they get back in the car. Once they shut the doors, they sit in silence for a moment. And then the giggles start; she tries to cover them up but can't. He takes one look at her and cracks up as well. For a good five minutes, they're paralyzed by relief that they survived not only a spell addled cat but a homicidal Grimm besides Nick.

"We should go." She giggles. "Before Kelly looks out the window and thinks we're plotting against her."

"And leaps through the windshield to chop our heads off?" he wonders and it sets them both off again.

"So..." Monroe sighs when it finally subsides and he starts up the car.

"So...?" Rose wonders right back.

"Do you want to go out sometime?"

She stares straight ahead for a second—the giggles now completely gone. She turns. "Yeah," she says, smiling. "Yeah, I do."

* * *

So I found a new German translator. Better? I hope. German is not one of the languages I ever learned and I have no background in it and I'm so sorry

R&R?


	4. what kindness really is

WHOOOO NEW ARC-I'm going to leave it in the same area because it's just easier and I don't want to create new story...I'm lazy.

So this one is going to a very small window of time, picking up shortly after the last arc. And I know it seems like I'm throwing in random characters...but Oh, guys do I have some plans.

In short, it was a hard term and I'm an awful human being who takes her frustrations out on fictional characters.

Disclaimer: I own nothing at all

* * *

"**Before you know what kindness really is/ you must lose things,/ feel the future dissolve in a moment/ like salt in a weakened broth/ What you held in your hand,/ what you counted and carefully saved,/ all this must go so you know/ how desolate the landscape can be/ between the regions of kindness..." Naomi Shihab Nye, "Kindness"**

* * *

"I don't know if this is going to work," Monroe mutters to Nick as they weave through the sterile hospital halls.

"Well, we've got to at least try," Nick retorts.

"But I don't see how she's going to remember me if she doesn't remember you. And she's never met Rosalee."f

"If I ever figure out how to help her, she'll have to trust me," Rose replies. "Better coming from a friend than a total stranger."

"If?" Nick turns back to her.

"I mean when." She corrects her self. "When." At least she knows what potion was used to wake Juliette up, even if they don't know the how it was done or the why of it all. She just keeps diving into her books whenever she can, looking for anything, grasping at straws until she can barely see straight.

Juliette's awake when they all trickle in, with the same smile from the picture that Rose saw once on Nick's desk. She immediately greets Monroe as if they're old friends and doesn't seem to think it's strange in the least bit. But Rose can't help but notice how Nick's shoulders slump a little at her own banal greeting to him.

"I don't think we've met," Juliette suddenly declares in Rose's direction. She glances at Monroe for confirmation. "Have...have we?"

"No, we haven't." She offers her hand to shake. "I'm Rosalee. I'm a friend of Nick and Monroe's."

"She's an apothecary," Monroe tells Juliette. "We thought she might be able to help jog your memory."

Rosalee sits on Juliette's other side. "Would you mind if I asked you a few questions? I want to gauge how intact your memory is."

"Sure... if it'll help."

"I'm going to give you three words and I'll need you to remember them because I'm going to ask you for them later: bus, Montana, purple." Juliette nods and repeats them to herself twice before looking back up at Rose.

"Ready."

Rosalee asks her what year it is, who the president is, where did she go to school, what year did she graduate. Juliette answers all of them with ease. But when she gets to Nick...

"Can you remember the first time you met Nick?"

Juliette sits up and glances over in Nick's direction. "He was there when I woke up. He said my name and...and he kissed me..." She lifts her free hand to her lip in confusion.

"Do you know Nick's last name?"

Juliette stares at her hands and then back up at Rose. "I...I don't know."

Rose smiles and pats her hands. "Don't worry. Can you repeat those words back to me?"

Juliette does with ease.

"Perfect. I'm just need to talk to Nick for a moment." She nods in Nick's direction and leads him out into the hall.

"So, can you fix it?" He demands.

"I don't know...The spell eats memory like Dementia does or Alzheimer's— though it seems without the mood destabilization."

"Is that how it works? Erasing specific events...or people?"

Rose shrugs. "All my research shows it doesn't do this. I suppose it is possible for the caster to target a specific memory, or event...Or person."

"How?"

"As far as a person is concerned, the caster would need something of yours. Skin, hair..." and then it dawns on her. "Blood..."

Nick goes white and covers his face with both hands. "I did this. I caused this." He lets his fingers slide down his cheekbones before he turns to her. "It's my fault."

Rose reaches out to place a gentle hand on his shoulder; if only her father could see her now. "You didn't kill that poor cat with the spell and you didn't poison Juliette."

"No," he murmurs. "But I gave Adalind every reason to do it. I took something from her and so she tried to take something from me."

"I wish I could tell you different."

Nick says nothing, only narrows his eyes at her.

"You gave Adalind everything on a silver platter." Rose gestures at the door.

"So, you think I should have ended it when I had the chance? Like my aunt?"

Rose shrugs. "All I know is that it's hard to hurt people who don't have anything to lose. And you showed Adalind your pressure point. You practically gift wrapped it for her." It's the world he lives in now, the one she will never entirely escape from. He'll have to learn sometime, she tells herself. "You're going to have to work on your poker face if you ever go up against a Hexenbiest again."

"Is that how you see things? He asks suddenly. "People as weaknesses? Collateral?" Nick lacks that killer edge his mother has but the hurt there is all too familiar. She's watched many a junior agents' innocence crumble into nothing on their first field job. On the one hand, she understands all to well the want to keep the ones you love ignorant. It's better for them. But too often, they're part of the damage when things blow up in your face. They're too close no matter what you tell them.

Rosalee steps back. "Only if you wear them on your sleeve."

"You be careful with him." Nick warns her, pointing at the door. "He doesn't see you as collateral."

She nods.

"He's a good guy. A little eccentric, sure but—"

"You don't have to do that."

"Do what?"

"Sell me." She shakes her head. "You don't have to tell me things I already know."

* * *

At first it's just dinners; once or twice a week. Rose tries hard to remind herself that he's a Blutbad and she's a Fuschbau and even if they do live in Portland in the twenty first century, she can't see it working out for the long haul, even if it is the most fun she's had in a very long time. But that voice grows hoarser and hoarser every time he shows up at her door. And she lets herself get swept up in it. They never go to the same place twice; they always seem to find something new, something better. The way they ease themselves into familiarity kind of surprises her, knowing he's the one calling, knowing what kind of wine he'd want becomes a reflex that she's not sure she ever wants to be rid of.

On the first real balmy night in May, she gets her huge semi-annual shipment in. They drink beer and sort through all the boxes that are blocking the front door. She tells him she only needs help because her arm hasn't healed as well as the doctor's hoped, not that he needs more of a reason. They can't seem to go for more than three days without seeing each other now. It's terrible and she's not doing a single goddamn thing about it either.

From her perch on the front desk and her manifest book settled on her knees, she orders Monroe this way and that, pointing with giggling impunity as he rolled his eyes at her. When he begs for a break, he wants to know exactly what is wrong with her arm. So, she rolls up her sleeve, defiantly, at him to show him the jagged and still pink scars across her deltoid. She pokes at the patch of skin right below the scar. "I can't feel parts of it. The doctors hoped the nerves would recover. But it still aches when the weather's being funky." She shrugs. "So, I guess not."

Reaching out, he runs his thumb over the scar; she can only feel it in pieces and parts. Rose rolls her sleeve back down and he turns to her; the concern there is enough to break her heart. "It's fine," She assures him, settling her hand on his.

His fingers twists around her hands. "It's not.

Rose runs her thumb over his. "It is what it is. Can't undo it now."

"Guess not." He steps a little closer, voice gone down another few octaves like it usually does when it's just the two of them.

There's a click in her brain as he looms closer and closer; she knows this dance all too well. Everything goes quiet in the shop, so quiet Rose doesn't even hear the traffic from the street. She could duck her head and say 'no'; she could say she doesn't want to break his heart because that's all she's ever done. Instead, she sits up straighter because she's been waiting for it for longer than she thought.

"You are so beautiful..." He murmurs, sweetly and without guile. Despite how she could laugh and tell him that beauty is a lie, an illusion that everyone buys into, his honesty nearly undoes her. The way he runs his thumb over her cheekbone, the way he only looks her in the eye stills the thought. Instead, she stays quiet and lets herself be beautiful. At least to him.

And it shouldn't surprise her in the least when he presses his lips to hers so gently she has to crack her eyes open just to be sure it's actually happening. Gripping a fistful of shirt, she draws him in closer. As he eases his lips over hers, there's a distinctive thump in the region of her chest where her heart is, like it's forgotten how to beat properly. His hand slips from her cheek to the back of her neck and all she can think is: _Shit, shit, shit_ in time with her hammering, out of practice heart. Because she doesn't want to stop. Because it feels good and right and absolutely necessary.

When they finally part, she grips his upper arms to keep him there.

"Whoa..." he breathes finally.

"I'll say." She grins; her heart beats so loud, she's sure they can hear it all the way in Den Haag and she doesn't even care.

"You don't mind? We talked about going slow...And—"

She shakes her head silently, all the while pulling him closer. She catches him in the middle of the sentence and feels him smile against her for a moment before wrapping his arms around her.

They finish unpacking the boxes; all the while, stealing secret glances even though they're the only ones for —what feels like—miles. When they part for the night, she throws her arms around his neck unabashedly under the streetlight as they kiss again and again. It's enough to keep her giddy for the rest of the summer.

* * *

"Good news, Frau Calvert," De Groot announces happily (or as happily as he can sound) "The trial's been set for October 31st."

"That's in three weeks," she counts on her fingers.

"Is that not sufficient time to book a flight?"

"It is. It just seems so...soon is all. When do you expect it to be over?"

"Perhaps its best if you buy a one way ticket. You'll be reimbursed of course. Be sure to send along your expenses."

"I will. I'll see you in three weeks."

"Contact Alexander with your arrival time. He's said he'd be willing to fetch you."

"I will. _Auf Wiedersehen*."_ She turns off her phone and stares at it for a moment. Rose always knew this day was coming, the day she'd have to go back and face that life again. She paces around the shop measuring every floorboard squeak as though she's earned them; she just never imagined that she'd have such a strong reason to come back to this place. As soon as she gets back to the front counter, the bell above the door sounds.

"Miss Rosie!" Malena shouts and barrels towards her.

Rose sets her phone on the counter to find the tiny eight-year-old racing toward her. "Hey kiddo!" she yanks back every inch of sadness. "How do you feel?"

"Good. Do you have more of the chewies? And tea? We're almost out!" Without waiting for an answer, Malena goes straight for the drawer of ginger candies Rose keeps on hand. Her parents always kept a drawerful when she and Freddy were young.

Malena's mother, Anita, pops her head in. "Oh good, you've got her. I swear the moment she got out of the car she was gone. Ran three blocks without me."

"Malena, you know you shouldn't do that!" She scolds and helps Malena to sit on the front counter next to her. "So, Malena tells me that you're in need of more tea."

Amelia sighs. "She had three attacks this month."

"Malena," Rosalee pokes her in the knee. "What are you doing scaring your mother like that?"

Malena shrugs, tearing at the piece of dried ginger pulled from the secret stash Rosalee always had on hand.

"I swear Rosalee, nothing else calms her down."

"She's still using the inhaler?"

"Of course"

"Let's try a little more coltsfoot? Just a touch?" Rose murmurs. "Maybe it'll help the inflammation a touch." She pulls down the jars for ginger, raspberry and coltsfoot.

Malena and Amelia watch carefully as Rose measures and weighs the little bag. "That should do it. I'll make a note about the coltsfoot for the next time, make sure the directions are easy. I'm going out of town in a few weeks."

"Where are you going, Miss Rosie?"

"I have to go back to Den Haag for a little while." She replies to Malena.

Amelia frowns. "But someone will be here to run on the shop?"

"I'm working on that." She smiles. "But I'll be back soon. I promise." She tells Malena's frown.

The bell above the door rings out again; there's Monroe, early as always. Amelia woges into her Fuschbau form before she's able to pull it back but Malena tilts her head to one side like a curious puppy. "You're really tall. Is it because you're a Blutbad?"

"Malena Diane!" Her mother hisses.

Monroe laughs. "And you're small because you're a Fuschbau?" He asks right back.

"Hey! Not small here!" Rose protests with a laugh.

"Don't know what I am yet!" Malena declares and grabs another bit of dried ginger "I hope I'm a Fuschbau like Mommy and Miss Rosie."

"Malena," her mother announces, worry coloring her voice. "Malena, come on, we've got a lot to do! We don't need to be in Miss Rosie's way."

Malena rolls her eyes and hops off the desk. Rose grabs a few more and helps , Malena to stuff them in her pocket. "Don't worry your mom too much, all right Kiddo?"

"Okay," Malena agrees and dashes after her mother. "Bye Miss Rosie! Have a good trip!"

He turns to her as soon as they're gone. "Trip?"

"I got a call from DeGroot about five minutes before Malena and her mother came in. I have to go back to Den Haag for a while."

"What? Why?"

"The trial is starting in about three weeks and they need me there to testify." She shakes her head. "It could take weeks or months. Though, I doubt they would ask me back if they thought the latter. I've given my statements to the lawyers so it's just a formality at this point."

"And it's about the guy who shot you before you came here?" She never heard that bit of a growl to his words before.

"Who grazed me," she corrects him. "And yes, the same guy."

Sometimes, she thinks he forgets who she used to be and that she's more than capable of taking care of herself. She has been for years. Rose isn't sure if it's because he's so much taller than her or because she has to stand on her tiptoes to kiss him or how easily she fits next to him.

She reaches across the table for his hand. Running her thumb in comforting circles over his, she says quietly. "I have to see this through. I want to watch him answer for what he did. I'm not asking for permission; I'm just telling you so you'll understand."

"Are you going to come back?" He wonders, squeezing her hand back.

She frowns, looking down at their clasped hands and lets go. "I've been spending my time off trying to figure out if I want to stay..."

Monroe stands back from the front counter, arms crossed over his chest.

She starts wandering around the side and stops a foot from him. "And...and I do. I have to go and take care of this first." She shrugs. "But I'll be back. I've become kind of attached."

He smiles. "It's good to hear."

"That reminds me, would you be willing to look after this place while I'm gone? I mean you've picked up a lot over the summer and I'm only a phone call away."

"Of course..." he casts a glance around. "Can't wait to redecorate."

"You're a _Liebling*_, you know?" She grabs his free hand.

He smiles. "I like that.._.Liebling_."

"By the way, that was Malena," Rose grins up at Monroe. "And her mother. And they'll probably be in within a month or so." She shakes her head. "Poor thing."

"Which one?"

"Both of them. Malena's asthmatic; she had three attacks this month alone. I make her a special tea to help with congestion and to calm her down afterward. Her mother's always worried someone will found out...what Malena is. Say something to the wrong people."

He nods. "So, she's Vorherrsch, then?"

"Amelia's a Fuschbau and her husband's a Lowen." She pulls out the recipe for the tea. "Freddy had been working with them for a long time to find ways to help her." Rose is surprised at the suddenly flare of sadness when she brings up her brother's name. She swipes at her eyes. He says nothing about it. "Come on, I'll show you where I keep all the other ones."

* * *

*good bye

*darling, sweetheart, term of endearment

* * *

"What are you smiling at?" He wonders, pouring more of the red in her glass.

"Nothing," she shakes her head. "Or everything or maybe about how I have such excellent taste in wine." She grins, taking sip.

If he's doing this to convince her to come back, he's doing an excellent job; a practically gourmet meal and the zither music is a nice touch. She only remembers mentioning it to him two months ago. Once, she would have called the whole evening disgusting domestic and would have outright scoffed at it all. Younger her was also used to staying up for two days in a row and voluntarily huffed poison into her lungs. Clearly, younger her was a total moron.

"What'd you get it again?"

"Paris. I'll see if I can get a few more bottles to bring back."

His falls a little at the mention of the trip. "Do you get to go anywhere else? Prague?"

She smiles. "I might. Why?"

He tells her about a massive astronomical clock on one of the cathedral faces. He can't remember where it is exactly but the way his face lights up and how animated he gets makes her wish he were coming with her. She tells him so when she's stalling getting in her car to go home. "You could tell me all about it."

"As tempting as that is..." he replies.

She bumps her knee against his, making him look up at her. "I hope you know I wish I didn't have to go."

"Why's that?" he murmurs, leaning in closer.

She only gives him a smirk before she kisses him as an answer. His hand curls around her waist to the small of her back as he returns it. She tries to memorize everything; the feel of his hand on her and the warm, wanted pressure of them, the steady (and right now, accelerating) thud of his heart in time with hers, how he wraps her up but doesn't constrain. It'll have to last her until she gets back. He traces his thumb over her cheekbone; a silent question. She nods, ready to draw him in and not let go.

And the door opens. Just as they're both about to yell at Nick, a woman's voice rings out: "We have to talk!" They extricate themselves and stand.

She has a shock of red hair against her milk pale skin. She's all sharp edges with the smell of blood and whiskey that lingers in her wake. Everything screams feral, enough to set Rosalee's teeth on edge. She turns and focuses on Rose. One jagged finger points. "And she has to go!"

Just as she's about to demand what right she has, Monroe stands between them. "Angelina? I thought you were dead." He murmurs as if to a ghost.

She rolls her eyes. "Look, we really have to talk. Alone." She spits the last part at Rose.

That young part of her, the wilder, stupider part, the part that used to fight for a man's attention rises up. But she tramps it down. "Look, clearly you have some unfinished business, so I'll go..." She looks for her jacket, ready to be gone.

"No," Monroe insists, his hand encircling her wrist. "She's going to. She doesn't get to come here and make demands."

"Fine!" The woman growls. "You can both get yourselves killed, see if I care."

"Is that a threat?" Rose wonders.

The woman's hands with her hands on her hips. "Yeah, I guess so. Considering I'm the one getting paid to do it."

"Wait, someone took a hit out ...on me? Why?"

"See, I didn't get a chance to ask because they had a gun to my head."

He looks over at Rose. "I'm calling Nick."

"That's still a thing?!" She cries. "Oh, my God!"

"He's probably the reason for the hit," Rose replies.

"Yeah, but who want to get at Nick?"

"Give you one guess," she murmurs before Nick picks up and she's left staring down a manic Blutbad.

"So.." Angelina drawls "You're in on this too? A Fuschbau?"

"Reluctantly...at first."

"I knew this wasn't going to end well." She mutters more to herself them anything. But she wanders into the kitchen as Monroe drifts back into the living room.

"He's on his way."  
She glances in the direction of the kitchen. "So that's Angelina?"

He nods. "That's her."

"Charming," is all she says.

When Nick arrives and everyone almost comes to blows, they decide that Nick insists that Monroe stay with Hank for the night, its the only safe place he can think off the books. Hank, new to all this (to Rosalee's many protests: "He's a Kehrseite and he's going to think you're insane if you tell him."), gamely agrees, though stares when Nick tells him what Rosalee is. As they head out, they say their goodbyes over her open car door. Angelina zips past them on her motorcycle and they wait until the distance drowns out the sound of her engine.

"You'll call if anything changes?" She makes him promise.

"Of course. Don't worry, it'll be fine."

It doesn't feel fine, but she keeps it in. "Promise me you'll be careful." She says quietly.

"Aren't I always?"

"No, you're not. Which is why I have to try to make you promise."

He settles his hands on her shoulders. "Everything is going to be okay. I will be careful. Nick will be careful. I promise. And I'm going to be there to drive you to the airport."

"Ugh," She groans and leans her head against his collarbone. "What a way to end a date." She doesn't dare say that she's feeling that everything she's been given since she's been back is being snatched away.

* * *

They're asking for suicide and they don't even know it.

"No," she crosses her arms over her chest. "No, no. I'm not doing this."

"Look, we don't have a lot of choice or time here, honey." Angelina starts in on her and it's all she can do to keep herself from smacking that smug look off her face.

"Hey, why don't you give us a second, guys?"

Nick needs no other direction and drags Hank with him. Angelina doesn't move for a moment, glaring at them. She rolls her eyes finally and slams the door behind her when she leaves the back room.

Rose covers her face with her hand. "Oh my God...I can't do this. I can't."

"Hey," he encircles her wrist. "I don't like it much either but I'm not going to spend my life looking over my shoulder. Besides, if this is about getting to Nick through his friends, that means you too."

Rose bites at her lower lip, ignoring that last sentiment entirely and the way he looks at her. It's killing her, all of it. "There has to be another way...something else. Anything else."

"What else can we do?"

"I can't —What if you don't wake up? Because of something I did?" She runs her fingers through her hair. "I can't watch you die in my shop."

"Well," he smirks. "Chances are, if it happens, it wouldn't be in the shop."

"That's not funny."

"It's a little funny." He reaches up to settle one hand on her shoulder.

Rose rolls her eyes. "You're terrible; I don't know why I put up with you."

"Because I'm so oddly optimistic? Or because I make a mean risotto?"

She sighs, "Both?"

"As long as you're not after me for my looks."

She can't help the little laugh escape; she covers her mouth with her hand. "You're the worst." she mutters and falls into him.

"Yeah, I know."

Rose manages to keep the tears in check as she mixes it and hands it over. She swallows down the hard lump in her throat as she watches him drink it down.

The moment he closes his eyes, though, she turns her head. No one speaks for a moment.

Angelina presses a hand, a gentle one that Rose would have never expected, on her shoulder. "I'll take care of him," she promises in a low voice. "Don't worry."

"If his hands start to curl or if he goes white," Rose manages to choke out. "You'll have to get him breathing again.

"I will," she promises and gives Rose's shoulder a little squeeze as she passes. But it doesn't fill her with as much confidence as Angelina hopes it will.

Rose keeps her head down and away as they carry him out of the shop. Just as Nick passes she grabs his hand. "Please..."

"I'll bring him back safe," Nick promises, pulling her into a real hug that nearly squeezes the tears out of her once and for all. She hugs back and buries her face in his shoulder for a moment. "It's gonna be okay," he runs his hand up and down her back and it nearly undoes her entirely. "I'll call the minute it's over."

" 'kay..." she murmurs around the lump. "I'm...I'm gonna stay here...just in case."

He gives her one last squeeze before pulling away. "That sounds like a plan."

Rose just nods as he shuts the door behind him. And then it's just her, alone. She retreats to the back room, where she sits (more like perches) on the cot with her phone clutched between her palms.

It seem as though her patience evaporates a little more every times she checks the time. Even as the youngest child in her family, she had the patience to out last the earth. Especially, when one considers DeEtta and her short temper and Freddy's perchance for sticking his nose in places it didn't belong, their mother thought Rose was going to be the easy one. She didn't expect her youngest to patiently wait until everyone had gone to bed to sneak out. Rose had a deep well and learned to draw on it early on.

But it's of no use now. She's not used to being this far removed from the action, from knowing what's going on..._that means you too._ She's the protector, the one with the growl to match her fury and the claws ready to draw blood..._that means you too..._

But not with the watch ticking away on her wrist and the screen on her phone staying blank. The silence presses down on her, surrounding her. And the fear, the kind she's been so familiar with in the last few years, creeps up her spine. It sits with her like a shadow while the hours stretch in front of her.

Two, almost unbearable hours pass before her phone chirps. She almost drops it in her hurry to answer.

"He's fine." Nick assures her before she can say anything. "He..." Nick lets out a low breath. "He's alive. That's what matters."

"What does that mean? Nick, what the hell happened?"

"Angelina...she didn't make it."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"She jumped in front of a gun-" Rose winces at the words. " ...And Rosalee, it happened so fast."

"What did he do?"

'He...he might have fallen off the wagon a bit. I'm not sure, I couldn't tell if it was him or her, it was dark and honestly, I'd rather not know."

"Where is he now?

"We're at his place. He's not...good. He needs you."

"I know. I'm on my way."

She's crazy, she tells herself every other time she makes a turn down familiar streets in the early dawn light. She's certifiable and she shouldn't. Then again the majority of the last ten years has been made up of 'shouldn't's.

When she gets to the door, she pauses. She's flirting with disaster. But like she usually does, she knocks anyway. Nick must have told him or he heard the car because he opens the door right away.

There's nothing for her to say, so instead she stands up on her tiptoes to throw her arms around his neck. It takes him a moment to reciprocate but he does, slowly, carefully. She notes the slightly shaky fingers and holds all the tighter. He finally leans his forehead against her collarbone and exhales. She feels it everywhere.

"I've got you," she murmurs finally.

The shaking vanishes as he tightens his hold on her, settling in at her waist.

"I'm so sorry, _Liebling_." She whispers. "I'm so so sorry. What can I do?"

"Not get on the plane?" He tries to laugh but he sounds like he's underwater.

"I'd rather not, if I had my way." She replies with a sad s smile. "I'm going to lose a whole day."

"Two," he insists. "Another for when you come back."

"Another for when I come back," she agrees.

"How long do you have?"

"You make it sound like I'm going for an execution and not a plane." But she checks her watch. "About an hour until I absolutely have to be there. Any later and I may not make it through security in time."

"Let me take you, like I promised."

"Oh, no. You should stay...I can take a taxi... I threw my bag in the back of the car."

"No, I want to see you off. Like I promised."

So, she lets him. Selfishly, she wants more time. She'd planned for a entirely different goodbye but she'll have to settle for this one, she supposes.

When they get to the departures lane, he pulls her bag out of the front of the Bug and sets it on the curb next to her. She looks up at him, yesterday's clothes rumpled-so unlike him- and dark circles under her eyes (matching her own she's sure). It's enough to make her want to throw her bag back in the car and shout: "Nevermind! I changed my mind. I don't want to go!" and they can drive to California, to the Coast; just anywhere that isn't the airport.

It's why she disappears into the middle of the night, why she vanishes without a word because goodbyes never get easier, only harder. Now would be a good time for a brave face, a laugh and a smile. Something good to leave him with but she's never as brave as she pretends to be. And Rose can't find it in herself to pretend to him now.

"I hate to leave you like this…" It's the only true thing she can think to say. "This is not what I planned at all."

He slips his arms around her waist and pulls her close. "The next time you have to head back to Den Haag, I swear I won't be the target of a hit."

"Promise?" She settles her hands on his arms, leaning her forehead against his jaw.

"I promise."

Rose reaches up to cradle his face in her hands for the last time. "I miss you already," she whispers before she kisses him once.

Rose steps back before Monroe can reach out and hold her to him and make her forget there are clocks and time and places she has to be. She only makes it to the door before she turns around to get one last glimpse. He raises one hand as she steps into the revolving door.

* * *

Like I said, I am a terrible human being

Anyway,

I used the term Vorherrsch because this is what they've used in the show. Granted, it's probably made up but I'm assuming it's a title, like what they call Hank and Juilette.

R&R?

Next time, Rosalee returns to Den Haag and we get to have fun with Wesen politics!


End file.
